^ 


THH  CAR 
L  HAT  WENT  ABROAD 


ALBERT  BIGEIjOW  PAINE 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


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THE  CAR 

THAT  WENT  ABROAD 
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ALBERT  BIGELOW  PAINE 

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IN  ONE  MAN'S  LIFE 

THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

THE  LURE  OF  THE  MEDITERRANEAN 

DWELLERS    IN   ARCADY 

FROM  VAN-DWELLER  TO  COMMUTER 

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Small    books    of    several    stories    each, 
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HOW  MR.    DOG    GOT   EVEN 

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MAKING   UP  WITH   MR.   DOG 

MR.   'POSSUM'S   GREAT  BALLOON  TRIP 

MR.   RABBIT'S  WEDDING 

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HARPER  &  BROTHERS,   NEW  YORK 
EsTABUaHED  1817 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

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'^1 


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1  See  p.  226 

'The  Normandy  Road  to  Cherbourg  Is  as  Wonderfil  as  Any  in  France  " 


THE  CAR 
THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Motoring  Through  the  Qolden  Age 


By 
ALBERT  BIGELOW  PAINE 

Author  of 
"thb  lube  of  the  meditebbanean" 

"OWELLEBS    IN    ABCADY"    ETC. 


Illustrated  from  drawings  by 
WALTER  HALE 


i 


HARPER  &.  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


1491! 9 


Tm  Cam  That  Wbwt  Absoab 


Copyright,  192 1,  by  Harper  &  Brother! 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


'I  VMd 


CONTENTS 


Part  I 

THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

CBAPm  PACE 

I.  Don't  Hurry  Through  Marseilles 3 

II.  Motoring  by  Tram 9 

Jl                   III.  Across  the  Crau 19 

^                    IV.  Mistral 27 

•                     V.  The  Rome  of  France 30 

5                    VI.  The  Way  Through  Eden 40 

—                  VII.  To  Tarascon  and  Beaucaire 43 

c                 VIII.  Glimpses  of  the  Past 48 

^                   IX.  In  the  Citadel  of  Faith 52 

Cp                    X.  An  Old  Tradition  and  a  New  Experience   .    .  58 

I                   XI.  Wayside  Adventures 65 

^                 XII.  The  Lost  Napoleon 72 

.                XIII.  The  House  of  Heads 79 

^                XIV.  Into  the  Hills 85 


'                  XV.  Up  the  Isere 89 

^                XVI.  Into  the  Haute-Savoie 94 

-f               XVII.  Some  Swiss  Impressions loi 

-0             XVIII.  The  Little  Town  of  Vevey       113 

*               XIX.  Mashing  a  Mud  Guard 123 

^                 XX.  Just  French — That's  All 127 


<f 


XXI.  We  Lugb 131 

Part   II 

MOTORING  THROUGH  THE  GOLDEN  AGE 

I.  The  New  Plan 143 

II.  The  New  Start 146 

III.  Into  the  Juras 151 


CONTENTS 

CHATTBR  PAGB 

IV.  A  Poem  in  Architectxjre i6o 

V.   ViENNE    IN   THE   RaIN         .      .      .      ,      , 164 

VI.  The  Chateau  I  Did  Not  Rent      ......  i68 

VII.  An  Hour  at  Orange .    #    .  172 

VIII.  The  Road  to  Pont  du  Gard 178 

IX.  The  Luxury  of  NImes 182 

X.  Through  the  Cayennes 186 

XI.  Into  the  Auvergne 193 

XII.  Le  Puy 196 

XIII.  The  Center  of  France 200 

XIV.  Between  Billy  and  Bessey       205 

XV.  The  Haute-Loire       ,    .    .    .  209 

XVI.  Nearing  Paris 213 

XVII.  Summing  Up  the  Cost 219 

XVIII.  The  Road  to  Cherbourg 223 

XIX.  Bayeux,  Caen,  and  Rotten 228 

XX.  We  Come  to  Grief        234 

XXI.  The  Damage  Repaired — Beauvais  and  Compiegne  238 

XXII.  From  Paris  to  Chartres  and  Chateaudun  .    ,  244 

XXIII.  We  Reach  Tours 250 

XXIV.  Chinon,  Where  Joan  Met  the  King,  and  Azay    .  255 
XXV.  Tours 260 

XXVI.  Chenonceaux  and  Amboise 264 

XXVII.  Chambord  and  Clery 271 

XXVIII.  Orleans 278 

XXIX.   FONTAINEBLEAU 283 

XXX.  Rheims 288 

XXXI.  Along  the  Marne 295 

XXXII.    DOMREMY 299 

XXXIII.  Strassburg  and  the  Black  Forest 306 

XXXIV.  A  Land  Where  Storks  Live      .......  313 

XXXV.  Back  to  Vevey      . 316 

XXXVI.  The  Great  Upheaval 320 

XXXVII.  The  Long  Trail  Ends 336 


Part  I 

THE  CAR 

THAT  WENT  ABROAD 


THE  CAR 
THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Chapter  I 

don't  hurry  through  MARSEILLES 

ORIGINALLY  I  began  this  story  with  a  number  of 
instructive  chapters  on  shipping  an  automobile, 
and  I  followed  with  certain  others  full  of  pertinent 
comment  on  ocean  travel  in  a  day  when  all  the  seas 
were  as  a  great  pleasure  pond.  They  were  very  good 
chapters,  and  I  hated  to  part  with  them,  but  my 
pubHsher  had  quite  positive  views  on  the  matter. 
He  said  those  chapters  were  about  as  valuable  now 
as  Jime  leaves  are  in  November,  so  I  swept  them  aside 
in  the  same  sad  way  that  one  disposes  of  the  autumn 
drift  and  said  I  woiild  start  with  Marseilles,  where, 
after  fourteen  days  of  quiet  sailing,  we  landed  with  our 
car  one  late  August  afternoon. 

Most  travelers  pass  through  Marseilles  hastily — 
too  hastily,  it  may  be,  for  their  profit.  It  has  taken 
some  thousands  of  years  to  build  the  "Pearl  of  the 
Mediterranean,"  and  to  walk  up  and  down  the  rue 
Cannebidre  and  drink  coffee  and  fancy-colored  liquids 
at  little  tables  on  the  sidewalk,  interesting  and  de- 


4  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

lightful  as  that  may  be,  is  not  to  become  acquainted 
with  the  "pearl" — not  in  any  large  sense. 

We  had  a  very  good  and  practical  reason  for  not 
hurrying  through  Marseilles.  It  would  require  a  week 
or  more  to  get  our  car  through  the  customs  and  obtain 
the  necessary  licenses  and  memberships  for  inland 
travel.  Meantime  we  would  do  some  sight-seeing. 
We  would  begin  immediately. 

Besides  facing  the  Old  Port  (the  ancient  harbor) 
our  hotel  looked  on  the  end  of  the  Cannebi^re,  which 
starts  at  the  Quai  and  extends,  as  the  phrase  goes, 
"as  far  as  India,"  meaning  that  the  nations  of  the 
East  as  well  as  those  of  the  West  mingle  there.  We 
imderstood  the  saying  as  soon  as  we  got  into  the 
kaleidoscope.  We  were  rather  sober-hued  bits  our- 
selves, but  there  were  plenty  of  the  other  sort.  It 
was  the  end  of  August,  and  Marseilles  is  a  semi-tropic 
port.  There  were  plenty  of  white  costumes,  of  both 
men  and  women,  and  sprinkled  among  them  the  red 
fezzes  and  embroidered  coats  and  sashes  of  Algiers, 
Morocco,  and  the  Farther  East.  And  there  were 
ladies  in  filmy  things,  with  bright  hats  and  parasols; 
and  soldiers  in  uniforms  of  red  and  blue,  while  the 
wide  pavements  of  that  dazzling  street  were  literally 
covered  with  little  tables,  almost  to  the  edges.  And 
all  those  gay  people  who  were  not  walking  up  and 
down,  chatting  and  laughing,  were  seated  at  the  little 
tables  with  red  and  green  and  yellow  drinks  before 
them  and  pitchers  of  ice  or  tiny  cups  of  coffee,  and 
all  the  seated  people  were  laughing  and  chattering,  too, 
or  reading  papers  and  smoking,  and  nobody  seemed 
to  have  a  sorrow  or  a  care  in  the  world.      It  was 


DON'T  HURRY  THROUGH  MARSEILLES       s 

really  an  inspiring  sight,  after  the  long,  quiet  days  on 
the  ship,  and  we  loitered  to  enjoy  it.  It  was  very  busy 
around  us.  Tramcars  jangled,  motors  honked,  truck- 
men and  cabmen  cracked  their  whips  incessantly. 
Newswomen,  their  aprons  full  of  long  pockets  stuffed 
with  papers,  offered  us  journals  in  phrases  that  I  did 
not  recognize  as  being  in  my  French  phonograph; 
cabmen  hailed  us  in  more  or  less  English  and  wanted 
to  drive  us  somewhere;  flower  sellers'  booths  lined 
both  sides  of  a  short  street,  and  pretty  girls  held  up 
nosegays  for  us  to  see.  Now  and  then  a  beggar  put 
out  a  hand. 

The  pretty  drinks  and  certain  ices  we  saw  made  us 
covetous  for  them,  but  we  had  not  yet  the  courage  to 
mingle  with  those  gay  people  and  try  our  new  machine- 
made  French  right  there  before  everybody.  So  wo 
slipped  into  a  dainty  place— a  pdtisserie  houlangerie 
— and  ordered  coffee  and  chocolate  ice  cream,  and  after 
long  explanations  on  both  sides  got  iced  coffee  and 
hot  chocolate,  which  was  doing  rather  well,  we 
thought,  for  the  first  time,  and,  anyhow,  it  was  quite 
delicious  and  served  by  a  pretty  girl  whose  French 
was  so  limpid  that  one  could  make  himself  believe  he 
understood  it,  because  it  was  pure  music,  which  is  not 
a  matter  of  arbitrary  syllables  at  all. 

We  came  out  and  blended  with  the  panaroma  once 
more.  It  was  all  so  entirely  French,  I  said;  no  sug- 
gestion of  America  anywhere.  But  Narcissa,  aged 
fifteen,  just  then  pointed  to  a  flaming  handbill  over 
the  entrance  of  a  cinematograph  show.  The  poster 
was  foreign,  too,  in  its  phrasing,  but  the  title,  "L'aven- 
tures  d' Arizona  Bill,"  certainly  had  a  flavor  of  home. 


6  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

The  Joy,  who  was  ten,  was  for  going  in  and  putting 
other  things  by,  but  we  overruled  her.  Other  signs 
attracted  us — the  window  cards  and  announcements 
were  easy  lessons  in  French  and  always  interesting. 

By  and  by  bouquets  of  lights  breaking  out  along 
the  streets  reminded  us  that  it  was  evening  and  that 
we  were  hungry.  There  were  plenty  of  hotels,  in- 
cluding our  own,  but  the  dining  rooms  looked  big  and 
warm  and  expensive  and  we  were  dusty  and  econom- 
ical and  already  warm  enough.  We  would  stop  at 
some  open-air  place,  we  said,  and  have  something 
dainty  and  modest  and  not  heating  to  the  blood. 
We  thought  it  would  be  easy  to  find  such  a  place,  for 
there  were  perfect  seas  of  sidewalk  tables,  thronged 
with  people,  who  at  first  glance  seemed  to  be  dining. 
But  we  discovered  that  they  were  only  drinking,  as 
before,  and  perhaps  nibbling  at  little  cakes  or  rolls. 
When  we  made  timid  and  rudimentary  inquiries  of  the 
busy  waiters,  they  pointed  toward  the  hotels  or 
explained  things  in  words  so  glued  together  we  could 
not  sort  them  out.  How  different  it  all  was  from 
New  York,  we  said.  Narcissa  openly  sighed  to  be  back 
on  "old  rue  de  Broadway,'*  where  there  were  restau- 
rants big  and  little  every  twenty  steps. 

We  wandered  into  side  streets  and  by  and  by  foimd 
an  open  place  with  a  tiny  green  inclosure,  where  a  few 
people  certainly  seemed  to  be  eating.  We  were  not 
entirely  satisfied  with  the  look  of  the  patrons,  but  they 
were  orderly,  and  some  of  them  of  good  appearance. 
The  little  tables  had  neat  white  cloths  on  them,  and 
the  glassware  shone  brightly  in  the  electric  glow. 
So  we  took  a  comer  position  and  studied  the  rather 


DON'T  HURRY  THROUGH  MARSEILLES       7 

elaborate  and  obscure  bill  of  fare.  It  was  written, 
and  the  few  things  we  could  decipher  did  not  seem 
cheap.  We  had  heard  about  food  being  reasonable  in 
France,  but  single  portions  of  fish  or  cutlets  at  ".45  " 
and  broiled  chicken  at  "1.20"  could  hardly  be  called 
cheap  in  this  retired  and  unpretentious  comer.  One 
might  as  well  be  in  a  better  place — in  New  York. 
We  wondered  how  these  unfashionable  people  about  us 
could  look  so  contented  and  afford  to  order  such 
Hberal  supplies.  Then  suddenly  a  great  light  came. 
The  price  amounts  were  not  in  dollars  and  cents, 
but  in  francs  and  centimes.  The  decimals  were  the 
same,  only  you  divided  by  five  to  get  American  values. 
There  is  ever  so  much  difference.^ 

The  bill  of  fare  suddenly  took  on  a  halo.  It  became 
almost  unbelievable.  We  were'  tempted  to  go — ^it 
was  too  cheap  to  be  decent.  But  we  were  weary  and 
hungry,  and  we  stayed.  Later  we  were  glad.  We 
had  those  things  which  the  French  make  so  well,  no 
matter  how  htimble  the  place — ''pot  au  feu,  bouilla- 
baisse" (the  fish  soup  which  is  the  pride  of  Marseilles — 
our  first  introduction  to  it),  lamb  chops,  a  crisp  salad, 
Gruy^re  cheese,  with  a  pint  of  red  wine ;  and  we  paid 
— I  try  to  blush  when  I  tell  it — a  total  for  our  four 
of  less  than  five  francs — that  is  to  say,  something 
imder  a  dollar,  including  the  tip,  which  was  certainly 
large  enough,  if  one  could  judge  from  the  lavish 
acknowledgment  of  the  busy  person  who  served  us. 

We  lingered  while  I  smoked,  observing  some  curious 
things.  The  place  filled  up  with  a  democratic  crowd, 
including,  as  it  did,  what  were  evidently  well-to-do 

^  The  old  rates  of  exchange  are  used  in  this  book. 


8  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

tradesmen  and  their  families,  clerks  with  their  yoimg 
wives  or  sweethearts,  single  derelicts  of  both  sexes, 
soldiers,  even  workmen  in  blouses.  Many  of  them 
seemed  to  be  regular  customers,  for  they  greeted  the 
waiters  and  chatted  with  them  during  the  serving. 
Then  we  discovered  a  peculiar  proof  that  these  were 
in  fact  steady  patrons.  In  the  inner  restaurant  were 
rows  of  hooks  along  the  walls,  and  at  the  comers  some 
racks  with  other  hooks.  Upon  these  were  hanging, 
not  hats  or  garments,  but  dozens  of  knotted  white 
cloths  which  we  discovered  presently  to  be  table  nap- 
kins, large  white  serviettes  like  our  own.  While  we  were 
trying  to  make  out  why  they  should  be  variously 
knotted  and  hung  about  in  that  way  a  man  and 
woman  went  in  and,  after  a  brief  survey  of  the  hooks, 
took  down  two  of  the  napkins  and  carried  them  to  a 
table.  We  understood  then.  The  bill  of  fare  stated 
that  napkins  were  charged  for  at  the  rate  of  five 
centimes  (one  cent)  each.  These  were  individual 
leaseholdings,  as  it  were,  of  those  who  came  regularly 
— ^a  fine  example  of  French  economy.  We  did  not 
hang  up  our  napkins  when  we  went  away.  We 
might  not  come  back,  and,  besides,  there  were  no 
empty  hooks. 


Chapter  II 

MOTORING   BY   TRAM 

A  LITTLE  book  says:  "Thanks  to  a  unique  sys- 
'**•  tem  of  tramways,  Marseilles  may  be  visited 
rapidly  and  without  fatigue."  .They  do  not  know 
the  word  "trolley"  in  Europe,  and  "tramway"  is 
not  a  French  word,  but  the  French  have  adopted  it, 
even  with  its  "w,"  a  letter  not  in  their  alphabet. 
The  Marseilles  trams  did  seem  to  nm  everywhere, 
and  they  were  cheap.  Ten  centimes  (two  cents) 
was  the  fare  for  each  "zone"  or  division,  and  a  divi- 
sion long  enough  for  the  average  passenger.  Being 
sight-seers,  we  generally  paid  more  than  once,  but 
even  so  the  aggregate  was  modest  enough.  The  cir- 
cular trip  around  the  Comiche,  or  shore,  road  has 
four  of  these  divisions,  with  a  special  rate  for  the 
trip,  which  is  very  long  and  very  beautiful. 

We  took  the  Comiche  trip  toward  evening  for  the 
sake  of  the  sunset.  The  tram  starts  at  the  rue  de 
Rome  and  winds  through  the  city  first,  across  shaded 
courts,  along  streets  of  varying  widths  (some  of  them 
so  old  and  ever  so  foreign,  but  always  clean),  past 
beautiful  public  buildings  always  with  deep  open  spaces 
or  broad  streets  in  front  of  them,  for  the  French  do 
not  hide  their  fine  public  architectures  and  monu- 
ments, but  plant  them  as  a  landscape  gardener  plants 


lo  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

his  trellises  and  trees.  Then  all  at  once  we  were  at 
the  shore — the  Mediterranean  no  longer  blue,  but 
crimson  and  gold  with  evening,  the  sun  still  drifting, 
as  it  seemed,  among  the  harbor  islands — the  towers 
of  Chateau  d'lf  outlined  on  the  sky.  On  one  side 
the  sea,  breaking  against  the  rocks  and  beaches, 
washing  into  Httle  sheltered  bays — on  the  other  the 
abrupt  or  terraced  cliff,  with  fair  villas  set  in  gardens 
of  palm  and  mimosa  and  the  rose  trees  of  the  south. 
Here  and  there  among  the  villas  were  palace-like 
hotels,  with  wide  balconies  that  overlooked  the  sea, 
and  down  along  the  shore  were  tea  houses  and  res- 
taurants where  one  could  sit  at  Httle  tables  on  pretty 
terraces  just  above  the  water's  edge. 

So  we  left  the  tram  at  the  end  of  a  zone  and  made 
our  way  down  to  one  of  those  places,  and  sat  in  a 
Httle  garden  and  had  fish,  freshly  caught,  and  a  cut- 
let, and  some  ripe  grapes,  and  such  things;  and  we 
watched  the  sim  set,  and  stayed  imtil  the  dark  came 
and  the  Comiche  shore  turned  into  a  necklace  of 
twinkHng  lights.  Then  the  tram  carried  us  still 
farther,  and  back  into  the  city  at  last,  by  way  of  the 
Prado,  a  broad  residential  avenue,  with  trees  rising 
dark  on  either  side. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  in  MarseiUes  we  had  learned 
a  number  of  things — made  some  observations — drawn 
some  conclusions.  It  is  a  very  old  city — old  when 
the  Greeks  settled  there  twenty-five  htmdred  years 
ago — but  it  has  been  ravaged  and  rebuilt  too  often 
through  the  ages  for  any  of  its  original  antiquity  to 
remain.  Some  of  the  buildings  have  stood  five  or 
six  hundred  years,  perhaps,  and  are  quaint  and  inter- 


MOTORING  BY  TRAM  ii 

esting,  with  their  queer  roofs  and  moldering  walls 
which  have  known  siege  and  battle  and  have  seen 
men  in  gaudy  trappings  and  armor  go  clanking  by, 
stopping  to  let  their  horses  drink  at  the  scarred  foun- 
tains where  to-day  women  wash  their  vegetables  and 
their  clothing.  We  were  glad  to  have  looked  on  those 
ancient  relics,  for  they,  too,  would  soon  be  gone.  The 
spirit  of  great  building  and  progress  is  abroad  in  Mar- 
seilles— the  old  clusters  of  houses  will  come  down — • 
the  hoary  fountains  worn  smooth  by  the  hands  of 
women  and  the  noses  of  thirsty  beasts  will  be  replaced 
by  new  ones — fine  and  beautiful,  for  the  French  build 
always  for  art,  let  the  race  for  commercial  supremacy 
be  ever  so  swift.  Fifty  or  one  himdred  years  from 
now  it  will  be  as  hard  to  find  one  of  these  landmarks 
as  it  is  to-day  relics  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  times, 
and  of  the  latter  we  found  none  at  all.  Tradition 
has  it  that  Lazarus  and  his  family  came  to  Marseilles 
after  his  resuscitation,  but  the  house  he  occupied  is 
not  shown.  Indeed,  there  is  probably  not  a  thing 
above  ground  that  Lucian  the  Greek  saw  when  ho 
lived  here  in  the  second  century. 

The  harbor  he  sailed  into  remains.  Its  borders 
have  changed,  but  it  is  the  same  inclosed  port  that 
sheltered  those  early  galleys  and  triremes  of  com- 
merce and  of  war.  We  looked  down  upon  it  from 
our  balcony,  and  sometimes  in  the  dim  morning,  or 
in  the  first  dusk  of  evening  when  its  sails  were  idle 
and  its  docks  deserted,  it  seemed  still  to  have  some- 
thing of  the  past  about  it,  something  that  was  not 
quite  reality.  Certain  of  its  craft  were  old  in  fashion 
and  quaint  in  form,  and  if  even  one  trireme  had  lain 


12  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

at  anchor  there,  or  had  come  drifting  in,  we  might 
easily  have  fancied  this  to  be  the  port  that  some- 
where is  said  to  harbor  the  missing  ships. 

It  is  a  busy  place  by  day.  Its  quays  are  full  of 
trucks  and  trams  and  teams,  and  a  great  traffic  going 
on.  Lucian  would  hardly  recognize  any  of  it  at  all. 
The  noise  would  appall  him,  the  smoking  steamers 
would  terrify  him,  the  transbordeur — an  aerial  bridge 
suspended  between  two  Eiffel  towers,  with  a  hanging 
car  that  travels  back  and  forth  like  a  cash  railway — 
would  set  him  praying  to  the  gods.  Possibly  the 
fishwives,  sorting  out  sea  food  and  bait  imder  little 
awnings,  might  strike  him  as  more  or  less  familiar. 
At  least  he  would  recognize  their  occupation.  They 
were  strung  along  the  east  quay,  and  I  had  never 
dreamed  that  the  sea  contained  so  many  strange 
things  to  eat  as  they  carried  in  stock.  They  had 
oysters  and  clams,  and  several  varieties  of  mussels, 
and  some  things  that  looked  like  tide-worn  lumps  of 
terra  cotta,  and  other  things  that  resembled  nothing 
else  imder  heaven,  so  that  words  have  not  been 
invented  to  describe  them. 

Then  they  had  oursins.  I  don't  know  whether  an 
oursin  is  a  bivalve  or  not.  It  does  not  look  Hke  one. 
The  word  "oursin"  means  hedgehog,  but  this  oursin 
looked  a  great  deal  more  like  an  old,  black,  sea-soaked 
chestnut  bur — that  is,  before  they  opened  it.  When 
the  oursin  is  split  open — 

But  I  cannot  describe  an  opened  oursin  and  pre- 
serve the  proprieties.  It  is  too — physiological.  And 
the  Marseillais  eat  those  things — eat  them  raw! 
Narcissa  and  I,  who  had  rather  more  limb  and  wind 


MOTORING  BY  TRAM  13 

than  the  others,  wandered  along  the  quay  a  good 
deal,  and  often  stood  spellbound  watching  this  per- 
formance. Once  we  saw  two  women  having  some  of 
them  for  early  breakfast  with  a  bottle  of  wine — ^f ancy ! 
By  the  way,  we  finally  discovered  the  restaurants 
in  Marseilles.  At  first  we  thought  that  the  Mar- 
seillais  never  ate  in  pubUc,  but  only  drank.  This 
was  premature.  There  are  restaurant  districts.  The 
rue  Colbert  is  one  of  them.  The  quay  is  another, 
and  of  the  restaurants  in  that  precinct  there  is  one 
that  no  traveler  should  miss.  It  is  Pascal's,  estab- 
lished a  himdred  years  ago,  and  descended  from  father 
to  son  to  the  present  moment.  Pascal's  is  famous 
for  its  fish,  and  especially  for  its  bouillabaisse.  If  I 
were  to  be  in  Marseilles  only  a  brief  time,  I  might 
be  willing  to  miss  the  Palais  Longchamps  or  a  cathe- 
dral or  two,  but  not  Pascal's  and  bouillabaisse.  It 
is  a  glorified  fish  chowder.  I  will  say  no  more  than 
that,  for  I  should  only  dull  its  bloom.  I  started  to 
write  a  poem  on  it.     It  began : 

Oh,  bouillabaisse,  I  sing  thy  praise. 

But  Narcissa  said  that  the  rhyme  was  bad,  and  I  gave 
it  up.  Besides,  I  remembered  that  Thackeray  had 
written  a  poem  on  the  same  subject. 

One  must  go  early  to  get  a  seat  at  Pascal's.  There 
are  rooms  and  rooms,  and  waiters  hurrying  about, 
and  you  must  give  yotu'  order,  or  point  at  the  bill  of 
fare,  without  much  delay.  Sea  food  is  the  thing, 
and  it  comes  hot  and  delicious,  and  at  the  end  you 
can  have  melon — from  paradise,  I  suppose,  for  it  is 
pure  nectar — a  kind  of  liquid  cantaloupe  such  as  I 


14  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

have  seen  nowhere  else  in  this  world.*  You  have 
wine  if  you  want  it,  at  a  franc  a  bottle,  and  when  you 
are  through  you  have  spent  about  half  a  dollar  for 
everything  and  feel  that  life  is  a  song  and  the  future 
made  of  peace.  There  came  moments  after  we  fotind 
Pascal's  when,  like  the  lotus  eaters,  we  felt  moved 
to  say:  "We  will  roam  no  more.  This  at  last  is  the 
port  where  dreams  come  true." 

Our  motor  clearance  required  a  full  ten  days,  but 
we  did  not  regret  the  time.  We  made  some  further 
trips  by  tram,  and  one  by  water — to  Chateau  d'lf, 
on  the  little  ferry  that  nms  every  hour  or  so  to  that 
historic  island  fortress.  To  many  persons  ChMeau 
d'lf  is  a  semi-mythical  island  prison  from  which,  in 
Dumas'  novel,  Edmond  Dantes  escapes  to  become 
the  Count  of  Monte  Cristo,  with  fabulous  wealth 
and  an  avenging  sword.  But  it  is  real  enough;  a 
prison  fortress  which  crowns  a  barren  rock,  twenty 
minutes  from  the  harbor  entrance,  in  plain  view  from 
the  Comiche  road.  Francois  I  laid  its  comer  stone 
in  1524  and  construction  continued  during  the  next 
seventy  years.  It  is  a  place  of  grim,  stubby  towers, 
with  an  inner  court  opening  to  the  cells — two  ranges 
of  them,  one  above  the  other.  The  furniture  of  the 
court  is  a  stone  stairway  and  a  well. 

Chateau  d'lf  is  about  as  solid  and  enduring  as  the 
rock  it  stands  on,  and  it  is  not  the  kind  of  place  one 
would  expect  to  go  away  from  alive,  if  he  were  invited 
there  for  permanent  residence.  There  appears  to 
be  no  record  of  any  escapes  except  that  of  Edmond 
Dantes,  which  is  in  a  novel.    When  prisoners  left 

^Oxir  honey-dew  melon  is  a  mild  approach  to  it. 


MOTORING  BY  TRAM  15 

that  island  it  was  by  consent  of  the  authorities.  I 
am  not  saying  that  Dumas  invented  his  story.  In 
fact,  I  insist  on  believing  it.  I  am  only  saying  that 
it  was  a  remarkable  exception  to  the  general  habit 
of  the  guests  in  Chateau  d'If.  Of  course  it  hap- 
pened, for  we  saw  cell  B  where  Dantes  was  confined, 
a  rayless  place ;  also  cell  A  adjoining,  where  the  Abb6 
Faria  was,  and  even  the  hole  between,  through  which 
the  Abbe  counseled  Dantes  and  confided  the  secret 
of  the  treasure  that  would  make  Dantes  the  master 
of  the  world.  All  of  the  cells  have  tablets  at  their 
entrances  bearing  the  names  of  their  most  notable 
occupants,  and  that  of  Edmond  Dantes  is  prom- 
inently displayed.  It  was  good  enough  evidence 
for  us. 

Those  cells  are  on  the  lower  level,  and  are  merely 
black,  damp  holes,  without  windows,  and  with  no 
floors  except  the  unleveled  surface  of  the  rock.  Pris- 
oners were  expected  to  die  there  and  they  generally 
did  it  with  Uttle  delay.  One  Bemadot,  a  rich  Mar- 
seilles merchant,  starved  himself,  and  so  found  release 
at  the  end  of  the  twelfth  day;  but  another,  a  sailor 
named  Jean  Paul,  survived  in  that  horrible  darkness 
for  thirty-one  years.  His  crime  was  striking  his 
commander.  Many  of  the  offenses  were  even  more 
trifling;  the  mere  utterance  of  a  word  offensive  to 
some  one  in  power  was  enough  to  secure  lodging  in 
Chateau  d'If.  It  was  even  dangerous  to  have  a 
pretty  daughter  or  wife  that  a  person  of  influence 
coveted.  Chateau  d'If  had  an  open  door  for  hus- 
bands and  fathers  not  inclined  to  be  reasonable  in 
such  matters. 


i6  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

The  second-story  prisons  are  larger  and  lighter, 
but  hardly  less  interesting.  In  No.  5  Count  Mirabeau 
lodged  for  nearly  a  year,  by  suggestion  of  his  father, 
who  did  not  approve  of  his  son's  wild  ways  and 
thought  Chateau  d'lf  would  tame  him.  But  Mira- 
beau put  in  his  time  writing  an  essay  on  despotism 
and  planning  revolution.  Later,  one  of  the  neighbor- 
ing apartments,  No.  7,  a  large  one,  became  the  seat 
of  the  tribunal  r&volutionnaire  which  condemned  there 
sixty-six  to  the  guillotine. 

Many  notables  were  sent  to  Ch&teau  d'lf  on  the 
charge  of  disloyalty  to  the  sovereign.  In  one  of  the 
larger  cells  two  brothers  were  imprisoned  for  having 
shared  the  exile  of  one  Chevalier  Glendeves  who  was 
obliged  to  flee  from  France  because  he  refused  to  go 
down  on  his  knees  to  Louis  XIV.  Royalty  itself 
has  enjoyed  the  hospitaHty  of  Chateau  d'lf.  Louis 
Phihppe  of  Orleans  occupied  the  same  large  apart- 
ment later,  which  is  really  quite  a  grand  one  for  a 
prison,  with  a  fireplace  and  space  to  move  about. 
Another  commodious  room  on  this  floor  was  for  a 
time  the  home  of  the  mysterious  Man  of  the  Iron 
Mask. 

These  are  but  a  few — one  can  only  touch  on  the 
more  interesting  names.  "Dead  after  ten  years  of 
captivity  " ;  "  Dead  after  sixteen  years  of  captivity '  * ; 
such  memoranda  close  many  of  the  records.  Some 
of  the  prisoners  were  released  at  last,  racke^  with 
disease  and  enfeebled,  in  mind.  Some  went  forth 
to  the  block,  perhaps  willingly  enough.  It  is  not  a 
place  in  which  one  wishes  to  linger.  You  walk  a 
little  way  into  the  blackest  of  the  dungeons,  stum" 


MOTORING  BY  TRAM  17 

bling  over  the  rocks  of  the  damp,  iinleveled  floor,  and 
hurry  out.  You  hesitate  a  moment  in  the  larger, 
lighter  cells  and  try  to  picture  a  king  there,  and  the 
Iron  Mask;  you  try  to  imagine  the  weird  figure  of 
Mirabeau  raging  and  writing,  and  then,  a  step  away, 
the  grim  tribunal  sorting  from  the  nobility  of  France 
material  for  the  guillotine.  It  is  the  kind  of  thing 
you  cannot  make  seem  real.  You  can  see  a  picture, 
but  it  is  always  away  somewhere — never  quite  there, 
in  the  very  place. 

Outside  it  was  simny,  the  sea  blue,  the  cliffs  high 
and  sharp,  with  water  always  breaking  and  foaming 
at  their  feet.  The  Joy  insisted  on  being  shown  the 
exact  place  where  Dantes  was  flung  over,  but  I  was 
afraid  to  try  to  find  it.  I  was  afraid  that  there 
would  be  no  place  where  he  could  be  flung  into  the 
water  without  hitting  the  sharp  rocks  below,  and 
that  would  end  the  story  before  he  got  the  treasure. 
I  said  it  was  probably  on  the  other  side  of  the  island, 
and  besides  it  was  getting  late.  We  sailed  home  in 
the  evening  light,  this  time  into  the  ancient  harbor, 
and  landed  about  where  Lucian  used  to  land,  I  should 
think,  such  a  long  time  ago. 

It  was  our  last  night  in  Marseilles.  We  had  been 
there  a  full  ten  days,  altogether,  and  time  had  not 
hung  upon  our  hands.  We  would  still  have  lingered, 
but  there  was  no  longer  an  excuse.  Even  the  car 
could  not  furnish  one.  Released  from  its  prison, 
refreshed  with  a  few  liters  of  gasoline — essence,  they 
call  it — and  awakened  with  a  gentle  hitch  or  two  of 
the  crank,  it  began  its  sweet  old  murmur,  just  as  if 
it  had  not  been  across  some  thousands  of  miles  of  toss- 


i8  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

ing  water.  Then,  the  clutch  released,  it  slipped  noise- 
lessly out  of  the  docks,  through  the  narrow  streets, 
to  a  garage,  where  it  acquired  its  new  numbers  and 
a  bath,  and  maybe  a  French  lesson  or  two,  so  that 
to-morrow  it  might  carry  us  farther  into  France. 


Chapter  III 

ACROSS  THE  CRAU 

'T'HERE  are  at  least  two  ways  to  leave  Marseilles 
■''  for  the  open  plain  of  the  Provence,  and  we  had 
hardly  started  before  I  wished  I  had  chosen  the  other 
one.  We  were  climbing  the  rue  de  la  R^publique, 
or  one  of  its  connections,  when  we  met,  coming  down 
on  the  wrong  side  of  the  tram  line,  one  of  the  heaviest 
vehicles  in  France,  loaded  with  iron  castings.  It 
was  a  fairly  crowded  street,  too,  and  I  hesitated  a 
moment  too  long  in  deciding  to  switch  to  the  wrong 
side,  myself,  and  so  sneak  around  the  obstruction. 
In  that  moment  the  monstrous  thing  decided  to  cross 
to  its  own  side  of  the  road,  which  seemed  to  solve 
the  problem.  I  brought  the  car  to  a  standstill  to  wait. 
But  that  was  another  mistake;  I  should  have 
backed.  The  obstruction  refused  to  cross  the  tram 
track.  Evidently  the  rails  were  slippery  and  when 
the  enormous  wheels  met  the  iron  they  slipped — 
slipped  toward  us — ponderously,  slowly,  as  inevita- 
ble as  doomsday.  I  was  willing  to  back  then,  but 
when  I  shifted  the  lever  I  forgot  something  else 
and  our  engine  stopped.  There  was  not  enough 
gravity  to  carry  us  back  without  it;  neither  was 
there  room,  or  time,  to  crank. ^    So  there  we  were, 

*The  reader  is  reminded  that  this  was  in  a  day  when  few  cars 
cranked  otherwise  than  by  hand. 


20  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

with  that  moiintain  closing  in  upon  us  hke  a  wall  of 
Poe's  collapsing  room. 

It  was  fascinating.  I  don't  think  one  of  us  thought 
of  jumping  out  and  leaving  the  car  to  its  fate.  The 
truck  driver  was  frantically  urging  his  team  forward, 
hoping  the  wheels  would  catch,  but  only  making  them 
sUde  a  little  quicker  in  our  direction.  They  were  six 
inches  away,  now — five  inches — three  inches — one 
inch — the  end  of  the  hub  was  touching  our  mud  guard. 
What  we  might  have  done  then — what  might  have 
happened  remains  guesswork.  What  did  happen 
was  that  the  huge  steel  tire  reached  a  joint  in  the 
tram  rail  and  imhurriedly  lifted  itself  over,  just  as 
if  that  was  what  it  had  been  intending  to  do  all  the 
time.  I  had  strength  enough  left  to  get  out  and 
crank  up,  then,  but  none  to  spare.  A  little  more 
paint  off  the  front  end  of  the  mud  guard,  but  that 
was  nothing.  I  had  whetted  those  guards  on  a 
variety  of  things,  including  a  cow,  in  my  time.  At 
home  I  had  a  real  passion  for  scraping  them  against 
the  door  casing  of  the  garage,  backing  out. 

Still,  we  were  pretty  thoughtful  for  several  miles 
and  missed  a  road  that  turns  off  to  Aries,  and  were 
on  the  way  to  Aix,  which  we  had  already  visited  by 
tram.  Never  mind;  Aix  was  on  the  way  to  Aries, 
too,  and  when  all  the  roads  are  good  roads  a  few  miles 
of  motor  travel  more  or  less  do  not  count.  Only 
it  is  such  a  dusty  way  to  Aix,  and  we  were  anxious 
to  get  into  the  cleaner  and  more  inviting  byways. 

We  were  at  the  outskirts,  presently,  and  when  we 
saw  a  military -looking  gentleman  standing  before  a 
little  house  marked  "U Octroi"  we  stopped.     I  had 


ACROSS  THE  CRAU  21 

learned  enough  French  to  know  that  Voctroi  means 
a  local  custom  house,  and  it  is  not  considered  good 
form  to  pass  one  of  them  unnoticed.  It  hurts  the 
Voctroi  man's  feelings  and  he  is  backed  by  the  gen^ 
darmerie  of  France.  He  will  let  you  pass,  and  then 
in  his  sorrow  he  will  telephone  to  the  police  station, 
just  ahead.  There  you  will  be  stopped  with  a  bay- 
onet, or  a  club,  or  something,  and  brought  back  to 
the  Voctroi,  where  you  will  pay  an  amend  of  six  francs; 
also  costs;  also  for  the  revenue  stamp  attached  to 
your  bill  of  particulars ;  also  for  any  little  thing  which 
you  may  happen  to  have  upon  which  duty  may  be 
levied;  also  for  other  things;  and  you  will  stand 
facing  a  half -open  ceU  at  the  end  of  the  corridor  while 
your  account  is  being  made  up — all  of  which  things 
happened  to  a  friend  of  mine  who  thought  that  be- 
cause an  octroi  man  looked  sleepy  he  was  partly  dead. 
Being  warned  in  this  way,  we  said  we  would  stop  for 
an  octroi  man  even  if  he  were  entirely  dead;  so  we 
pulled  up  and  nodded  politely,  and  smiled,  and  said, 
"Bon  joor,  messoor,"  and  waited  his  pleasure. 

You  never  saw  a  politer  man.  He  made  a  sweeping 
salute  and  said — well,  it  doesn't  matter  just  what  he 
said — I  took  it  to  be  complimentary  and  Narcissa 
thought  it  was  something  about  vegetables.  What- 
ever it  was,  we  all  smiled  again,  while  he  merely 
glanced  in  the  car  fore  and  aft,  gave  another  fine 
salute  and  said,  *' Allay''  whereupon  we  understood, 
and  allayed,  with  counter-salutes  and  ftuther  smiles — 
all  of  which  seemed  pleasanter  than  to  be  brought 
back  by  a  gendarme  and  stood  up  in  front  of  a  cell 
during  the  reckoning  process. 


22  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Inquiring  in  Aix  for  the  road  to  Aries  we  made  a 
discovery,  to  wit:  they  do  not  always  pronounce  it 
"Arl"  in  the  French  way,  but  "Arlah,"  which  is 
Provengal,  I  suppose,  the  remains  of  the  old  name 
"Arlate."  One  yoimg  man  did  not  seem  even  to 
recognize  the  name  Aries,  though  curiously  it  hap- 
pened that  he  spoke  EngHsh — enough,  at  least,  to 
direct  us  when  he  found  that  it  was  his  Provengal 
"Arlah"  that  we  wanted. 

So  we  left  Aix  behind  us,  and  with  it  the  dust,  the 
trams,  and  about  the  last  traces  of  those  modem 
innovations  which  make  life  so  comfortable  when 
you  need  them  and  so  impeaceful  when  you  prefer 
something  else.  The  one  great  modem  innovation 
which  bore  us  silently  along  those  level  roads  fell 
into  the  cosmic  rhythm  without  a  jar — becoming,  as 
it  seemed,  a  sort  of  superhuman  activity,  such  as 
we  shall  know,  perhaps,  when  we  get  our  lost  wings 
again. 

I  don't  know  whether  Provence  roads  are  modem 
or  not.  I  suspect  they  were  begun  by  the  Roman 
armies  a  good  while  ago;  but  in  any  case  they  are 
not  neglected  now.  They  are  boulevards — no,  not 
exactly  that,  for  the  word  "boulevard"  suggests 
great  width.  They  are  avenues,  then,  ample  as  to 
width,  and  smooth  and  hard,  and  planted  on  both 
sides  with  exactly  spaced  and  carefully  kept  trees. 
Leaving  Aix,  we  entered  one  of  these  highways  run- 
ning straight  into  the  open  country.  Naturally  we 
did  not  expect  it  to  continue  far,  not  in  that  perfectly 
ordered  fashion,  but  when  with  mile  after  mile  it 
varied  only  to  become  more  beautiful,  we  were  filled 


ACROSS  THE  CRAU  23 

with  wonder.  The  country  was 'not  thickly  settled; 
the  road  was  sparsely  traveled.  Now  and  then  we 
passed  a  heavy  team  drawing  a  load  of  hay  or  grain 
or  wine  barrels,  and  occasionally,  very  occasionally, 
we  saw  an  automobile. 

It  was  a  fair,  fertile  land  at  first.  There  were 
rich,  sloping  fields,  vineyards,  olive  gardens,  and 
plumy  poplars;  also,  an  occasional  stone  farmhouse 
that  looked  ancient  and  mossy  and  picturesque,  and 
made  us  wish  we  could  know  something  of  the  life 
inside  its  heavy  walls.  We  said  that  sometime  we 
would  stop  at  such  a  place  and  ask  them  to  take  us 
in  for  the  night. 

Now  and  then  we  passed  through  a  village,  where 
the  streets  became  narrow  and  winding,  and  were 
not  specially  clean.  They  were  interesting  places 
enough,  for  they  were  old  and  queer,  but  they  did 
not  invite  us  to  linger.  They  were  neither  older  nor 
more  queer  than  comers  of  Marseilles  we  had  seen. 
Once  we  saw  a  kind  of  fair  going  on  and  the  people 
in  holiday  dress. 

At  Salon,  a  still  larger  and  cleaner  place,  we  stopped 
to  buy  something  for  our  wayside  luncheon.  Near 
the  comer  of  a  little  shaded  square  a  man  was  selling 
those  delectable  melons  such  as  we  had  eaten  in  Mar- 
seilles; at  a  shop  across  the  way  was  a  window  full 
of  attractions — little  cheeses,  preserved  meats,  and 
the  like.  I  gathered  up  an  assortment,  then  went 
into  a  houlangerie  for  bread.  There  was  another 
customer  ahead  of  me,  and  I  learned  something, 
watching  his  transaction.     Bread,  it  seemed,  was  not 

sold  by  the  loaf  there,  but  by  exact  weight.     The 
3 


24  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

man  said  some  words  and  the  woman  who  waited  on 
him  laid  two  loaves,  each  about  a  yard  long,  on  the 
scales.  Evidently  they  exceeded  his  order,  for  she 
cut  off  a  foot  or  so  from  one  loaf.  Still  the  weight 
was  too  much,  and  she  cut  off  a  slice.  He  took  what 
was  left,  laid  down  his  money,  and  walked  out.  I 
had  a  feeling  that  the  end  and  slice  would  He  arotmd 
and  get  shopworn  if  I  did  not  take  them.  I  pointed 
at  them,  and  she  put  them  on  the  scales.  Then  I 
laid  down  a  franc,  and  she  gave  me  half  a  gill  of 
copper  change.  It  made  the  family  envious  when 
they  saw  how  exactly  I  had  transacted  my  purchase. 
There  is  nothing  like  knowing  the  language.  We 
pushed  on  into  the  country  again,  stopped  in  a  shady, 
green  place,  and  picnicked  on  those  good  things  for 
which  we  had  spent  nearly  four  francs.  There  were 
some  things  left  over,  too;  we  could  have  done  with- 
out the  extra  slice  of  bread. 

There  were  always  mountains  in  view,  but  where 
we  were  the  land  had  become  a  level  plain,  once,  ages 
ago,  washed  by  the  sea.  We  realized  this  when  the 
fertile  expanse  became,  little  by  little,  a  barren — a 
mere  waste,  at  length,  of  flat  smooth  stones  like 
cobble,  a  floor  left  by  the  departing  tides.  "La 
Crau"  it  is  called,  and  here  there  were  no  homes. 
No  harvest  could  grow  in  that  land — nothing  but  a 
Uttle  tough  grass,  and  the  artificially  set  trees  on 
either  side  of  the  perfectly  smooth,  perfectly  straight 
road  that  kept  on  and  on,  mile  after  mile,  imtil  it 
seemed  that  it  must  be  a  band  aroimd  the  world. 
How  can  they  afford  to  maintain  such  a  road  through 
that  sterile  land? 


ACROSS  THE  CRAU  25 

The  sun  was  dropping  to  the  western  horizon,  but 
we  did  not  hurry.  I  set  the  throttle  to  a  point  where 
the  speedometer  registered  fifteen  miles  an  hour. 
So  level  was  the  road  that  the  figures  on  the  dial 
seemed  fixed  there.  There  was  nothing  to  see  but 
the  imbroken  barren,  the  perfectly  regular  rows  of 
sycamore  or  cypress,  and  the  evening  sky;  yet  I 
have  seldom  known  a  drive  more  inspiring.  Steadily, 
imvaryingly,  and  silently  heading  straight  into  the 
sunset,  we  seemed  somehow  a  part  of  the  planetary 
system,  Uttle  brother  to  the  stars. 

It  was  dusk  when  we  reached  the  outskirts  of  Aries 
and  stopped  to  light  the  lamps.  The  wide  street  led 
us  into  the  business  region,  and  we  hoped  it  might 
carry  us  to  the  hotels.  But  this  was  too  much  to 
expect  in  an  old  French,  Provengal,  Roman  city. 
Pausing,  we  pronounced  the  word  "hotel,"  and  were 
directed  toward  narrower  and  darker  ways.  We  had 
entered  one  of  these  when  a  man  stepped  out  of  the 
shadow  and  took  charge  of  us.  I  concluded  that  we 
were  arrested  then,  and  probably  would  not  need  a 
hotel.  But  he  also  said  "hotel,"  and,  stepping  on 
the  running-board,  pointed,  while  I  steered,  imder  his 
direction.  I  have  no  idea  as  to  the  way  we  went, 
but  we  came  out  into  a  semi-Ughted  square  directly 
in  front  of  a  most  friendly-looking  hostelry.  Then 
I  went  in  and  aired  some  of  my  phonograph  French, 
inquiring  about  rooms  on  the  different  stages  and 
the  cost  of  diners  and  dejeuners,  and  the  landlady 
spoke  so  slowly  and  distinctly  that  it  made  one  vain 
of  his  understanding. 
So  we  unloaded,  and  our  guide,  who  seemed  to  be 


26  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

an  attache  of  the  place,  directed  me  to  the  garage. 
I  gathered  from  some  of  the  soimds  he  made  that 
the  main  garage  was  complet — that  is  to  say,  full — 
and  we  were  going  to  an  annex.  It  was  an  interest- 
ing excursion,  but  I  should  have  preferred  to  make 
it  on  foot  and  by  dayUght.  We  crossed  the  square 
and  entered  a  cobbled  street — no,  a  passage — between 
ancient  walls,  lost  in  the  blackness  above,  and  so 
close  together  below  that  I  hesitated.  It  was  a  place 
for  armored  men  on  horseback,  not  for  automobiles. 
We  crept  slowly  through  and  then  we  came  to  an 
uphill  comer  that  I  was  sure  no  car  without  a  hinge 
in  the  middle  could  turn.  But  my  guard — guide,  I 
mean,  signified  that  it  could  be  done,  and  inch  by 
inch  we  crawled  through.  The  annex — it  was  really 
a  stable  of  the  Middle  Ages — was  at  the  end  of  the 
tunnel,  and  when  we  came  away  and  left  the  car 
there  I  was  persuaded  that  I  should  never  see  it  again. 
Back  at  the  hotel,  however,  it  was  cheerful  enough. 
It  seemed  an  ancient  place  of  stone  stairways  and 
thick  walls.  Here  and  there  in  niches  were  Roman 
vases  and  fragments  foimd  during  the  excavations. 
Somewhere  underneath  us  were  said  to  be  catacombs. 
Attractive  things,  all  of  them,  but  the  dinner  we  had 
— ^hot,  fine  and  French,  with  vin  compris  two  colors 
— was  even  more  attractive  to  travelers  who  had 
been  drinking  in  oxygen  under  the  wide  sky  all  those 
steady  miles  across  the  Crau. 


Chapter  IV 

MISTRAL 

(From  my  notes,  September  lo,  1913) 

Adjoining  our  hotel — almost  a  part  of  it,  in  fact, 
^^  is  a  remnant  of  the  ancient  Roman  forum  of 
Aries.  Some  columns,  a  piece  of  the  heavy  wall, 
sections  of  lintel,  pediment,  and  cornice  still  stand. 
It  is  a  portion  of  the  Corinthian  entrance  to  what 
was  the  superb  assembly  place  of  Roman  Aries.  The 
square  is  called  Place  du  Forum,  and  sometimes  now 
Place  Mistral — the  latter  name  because  a  bronze 
statue  of  the  "Homer  of  the  Provence"  has  been 
erected  there,  just  across  from  the  fonmi  entrance. 

Fr6d6ric  Mistral,  still  alive  at  eighty-three,  is  the 
light  of  the  modem  Provence.'  We  had  begun  to 
realize  something  of  this  when  we  saw  his  photo- 
graphs and  various  editions  of  his  poems  in  the  win- 
dows of  Marseilles  and  Aix,  and  handbills  annoimcing 
the  celebration  at  St.  Remy  of  the  fiftieth  anniversary 
of  Goimod's  score  of  Mistral's  great  poem,  "Mireille." 
But  we  did  not  at  all  realize  the  fullness  of  the  Pro- 
ven gal  reverence  for  "the  Master,"  as  they  call  him, 
imtil  we  reached  Aries.  To  the  Provence  Mistral 
is  a  god — an  Apollo — the  "central  sun  from  which 
other    Provengal    singers    are    as    diverging    rays." 

'  Written  in  1913.     Mistral  died  March  34th  of  the  following  year. 


28  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Whatever  Mistral  touches  is  glorified.  Provengal 
women  talk  with  a  new  grace  because  Mistral  has 
sung  of  them.  Green  slopes  and  mossy  ruins  are 
viewed  through  the  light  of  Mistral's  song.  A  Mis- 
tral anniversary  is  celebrated  like  a  Declaration  of 
Independence  or  a  Louisiana  Purchase.  They  have 
even  named  a  wind  after  him.  Or  perhaps  he  was 
named  after  the  wind.  Whichever  way  it  was,  the 
wind  has  taken  second  place  and  the  people  smile 
tenderly  now,  remembering  the  Master,  when  its 
name  is  mentioned. 

I  believe  Mistral  does  not  sing  in  these  later  days. 
He  does  not  need  to.  The  songs  he  sang  in  youth  go 
on  singing  for  him,  and  are  always  young.  Outside 
of  France  they  are  not  widely  known;  their  bloom 
and  fragrance  shrink  imder  translation.  George 
Meredith,  writing  to  Janet  Ross  in  1861,  said:  "Mis- 
tral I  have  read.  He  is  really  a  fine  poet."  But  to 
Meredith  the  euphonies  of  France  were  not  strange. 

And  Mistral  has  loved  the  Provence.  Not  only 
has  he  sung  of  it,  but  he  has  given  his  labor  and  sub- 
stance to  preserve  its  memories.  When  the  Academy 
voted  him  an  award  of  three  thousand  francs  he 
devoted  it  to  the  needs  of  his  fellow  poets;*  when  he 
was  awarded  the  Nobel  prize  he  forgot  that  he  might 
spend  it  on  himself,  and  bought  and  restored  an  old 
palace,  and  converted  it  into  a  museum  for  Aries. 


*  Daudet  in  his  LeUres  de  Mon  Moulin  says: 

"//  y  d  qtuUre  ans,  lorsque  I'AcadSmie  donna  d  Vauteur  de  'MireiUe' 
le  prix  de  trois  miUe  francs.     Mtne.  Mistral  [sa  mhre]  eut  une  idSe. 

"'Si  nous  faisons  tapisser  et  plafonner  ta  chamhre? '  dit  elle  d  son  fils. 

"'Nonl  nonl'  repondit  Mistral.  'Qa  ('est  V argent  des  poetes,  on 
n'y  louche  pas.'" 


MISTRAL  29 

Then  he  devoted  his  time  and  energies  to  collecting 
Provengal  reHcs,  and  to-day,  with  its  treasures  and 
associations,  the  place  has  become  a  shrine.  ,Every- 
thing  relating  to  the  life  and  traditions  of  the  Pro- 
vence is  there — Roman  sculpture,  sarcophagi,  ceram- 
ics, frescoes,  furnishings,  implements — the  place  is 
crowded  with  precious  things.  Lately  a  room  of 
honor  has  been  devoted  to  the  poet  himself.  In  it 
are  cases  filled  with  his  personal  treasures;  the  walls 
are  hung  with  illustrations  used  in  his  books.  On 
the  mantel  is  a  fine  bust  of  the  poet,  and  in  a  hand- 
some reliquary  one  finds  a  lock  of  hair,  a  little  dress, 
and  the  cradle  of  the  infant  Mistral.  In  the  cradle 
Ues  the  manuscript  of  Mistral's  first  and  greatest 
work,  the  "Mireille."  The  Provence  has  produced 
other  noted  men — among  them  Alphonse  Daudet, 
who  was  bom  just  over  at  NJmes,  and  celebrated 
the  town  of  Tarascon  with  his  Tartarin.  But  Daudet 
went  to  Paris,  which  is,  perhaps,  a  sin.  The  Pro- 
vence is  proud  of  Daudet,  and  he,  too,  has  a  statue, 
at  Nimes;  but  the  Provence  worships  Mistral* 


Chapter  V 

THE  ROME  OP  PRANCE 

'T'HERE  is  no  record  of  a  time  when  there  was  not 
*■  a  city  at  Aries.  The  Rhone  divides  to  form  its 
delta  there — ^loses  its  swiftness  and  becomes  a  smooth 
highway  to  the  sea. 

"As  at  Aries,  where  the  Rhone  stagnates,"  wrote 
Dante,  who  probably  visited  the  place  on  a  journey 
he  made  to  Paris.  There  the  fiat  barrenness  of  the 
Crau  becomes  fertile  slopes  and  watered  fields.  It 
is  a  place  for  men  to  congregate  and  it  was  already 
important  when  Julius  Caesar  established  a  Roman 
colony  and  built  a  fleet  there,  after  which  it  became 
still  more  important — ^finally,  with  its  one  hundred 
thousand  inhabitants,  rivaling  even  Marseilles.  It 
was  during  those  earlier  years — along  through  the 
first  and  second  centuries — that  most  of  the  great 
building  was  done,  remnants  of  which  survive  to 
this  day.  Prosperity  continued  even  into  the  fourth 
century,  when  the  Christian  Emperor  Constantine 
established  a  noble  palace  there  and  contemplated 
making  it  the  capital  of  his  kingdom. 

But  then  the  decline  set  in.  In  the  next  century 
or  two  clouds  of  so-called  barbarians  swept  down 
from  the  north  and  east,  conquering,  plundering, 
and  establishing  new  kingdoms.  Gauls,  Goths,  Sar- 
acens, and  Francs  each  had  their  turn  at  it. 


THE  ROME  OF  FRANCE  31 

Following  came  the  parlous  years  of  the  middle 
period.  For  a  brief  time  it  was  an  independent 
republic;  then  a  monarchy.  By  the  end  of  the 
€fteenth  century  it  was  ready  to  be  annexed  to 
France.  Always  a  battle  ground,  raided  and  sacked 
so  often  that  the  count  is  lost,  the  wonder  is  that 
any  of  its  ancient  glories  survive  at  all.  But  the 
Romans  built  well;  their  massive  construction  has 
withstood  the  wild  ravage  of  succeeding  wars,  the 
Sim  and  storm  of  millennial  years. 

We  knew  Httle  of  Aries  except  that  it  was  the  place 
where  there  was  the  ruin  of  a  Roman  arena,  and  we 
expected  not  much  from  that.  The  Romans  had 
occupied  France  and  had  doubtless  built  amusement 
places,  but  if  we  gave  the  matter  any  further  thought 
it  was  to  conclude  that  such  provincial  circus  rings 
would  be  small  affairs  of  which  only  a  few  ves- 
tiges, like  those  of  the  ruined  Forum,  would  remain. 
We  would  visit  the  fragments,  of  course,  and  mean- 
time we  drifted  along  one  side  of  the  Place  du  Forum 
in  the  morning  sunlight,  looking  in  show  windows  to 
find  something  in  picture  postals  to  send  home. 

What  we  saw  at  first  puzzled,  then  astonished  us. 
Besides  the  pictures  of  Mistral  the  cards  were  mostly 
of  ruins — which  we  expected,  perhaps,  but  not  of 
such  ruins.  Why,  these  were  not  mere  vestiges. 
Ephesus,  Baalbec,  Rome  itself,  could  hardly  show 
more  impressive  remains.  The  arena  on  these  cards 
seemed  hardly  a  ruin  at  all,  and  here  were  other  cards 
which  showed  it  occupied,  filled  with  a  vast  modem 
audience  who  were  watching  something — clearly  a 
bull  fight,  a  legitimate  descendant  of  Nero's  Rome. 


32  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

I  could  not  at  first  believe  that  these  structures  could 
be  of  Aries,  but  the  inscriptions  were  not  to  be  dis- 
puted.    Then  I  could  not  wait  to  get  to  them. 

We  did  not  drive.  It  was  only  a  little  way  to  the 
arena,  they  told  us,  and  the  narrow  streets  looked 
crooked  and  congested.  It  was  a  hot  September 
morning,  but  I  think  we  hurried.  I  suppose  I  was 
afraid  the  arena  would  not  wait.  Then  all  at  once 
we  were  right  upon  it,  had  entered  a  lofty  arch, 
climbed  some  stairs,  and  were  gazing  down  on  one 
of  the  surviving  glories  of  a  dead  empire. 

What  a  structure  it  is!  An  oval  448  by  352  feet 
— more  than  half  as  big  again  as  a  city  block;  the 
inner  oval,  the  arena  itself,^  226  by  129  feet,  the  tiers 
of  stone  seats  rising  terrace  above  terrace  to  a  high 
circle  of  arches  which  once  formed  the  support  for 
an  enormous  canvas  dome. 

All  along  the  terraces  arches  and  stairways  lead 
down  to  spacious  recesses  and  the  great  entrance 
corridor.  The  twenty  thousand  spectators  which 
this  arena  once  held  were  not  obliged  to  crowd  through 
any  one  or  two  entrances,  but  could  enter  almost 
anywhere  and  ascend  to  their  seats  from  any  point 
of  the  compass.  They  held  tickets — pieces  of  parch- 
ment, I  suppose — and  these  were  numbered  like  the 
seats,  just  as  tickets  are  numbered  to-day. 

Down  near  the  ringside  was  the  pit,  or  podium, 
and  that  was  the  choice  place.  Some  of  the  seats 
there  were  owned,  and  bore  the  owners*  names.  The 
upper  seats  are  wide  stone  steps,  but  comfortable 

*  The  word  "arena"  derives  its  name  from  the  sand,  strewn  to  ab- 
sorb the  bloo(f. 


THE  ROME  OF  FRANCE  33 

enough,  and  solid  enough  to  stand  till  judgment 
day.  They  have  ranged  wooden  benches  along  some 
of  them  now,  I  do  not  see  why,  for  they  are  very 
ugly  and  certainly  not  luxurious.  They  are  for  the 
entertainments — mainly  bull  fights — of  the  present; 
for  strange,  almost  unbelievable  as  it  seems,  the  old 
arena  has  become  no  mere  landmark,  a  tradition,  a 
monument  of  barbaric  tastes  and  morals,  but  con- 
tinues in  active  service  to-day,  its  ptupose  the  same, 
its  morals  not  largely  improved. 

It  was  built  about  the  end  of  the  first  century,  and 
in  the  beginning  stags  and  wild  boars  were  chased 
and  put  to  death  there.  But  then  Roman  taste 
improved.  These  were  tame  affairs,  after  all.  So 
the  arena  became  a  prize  ring  in  which  the  com- 
batants handled  one  another  without  gloves — that 
is  to  say,  with  short  swords — and  were  hacked  into 
a  mince  instead  of  mauled  into  a  pulp  in  our  more 
refined  modem  way.  To  vary  the  games  lions  and 
tigers  were  imported  and  matched  against  the  glad- 
iators, with  pleasing  effect.  Public  taste  went  on 
improving  and  demanding  fresh  novelties.  Rome 
was  engaged  just  then  in  exterminating  Christians, 
and  the  happy  thought  occurred  to  make  spectacles 
of  them  by  having  them  fight  the  gladiators  and 
the  wild  beasts,  thus  combining  business  and  pleas- 
ure in  a  manner  which  would  seem  to  have  been 
highly  satisfactory  to  the  pubUc  who  thronged  the 
seats  and  applauded  and  laughed,  and  had  refresh- 
ments served,  and  said  what  a  great  thing  Chris- 
tianity was  and  how  they  hoped  its  converts  would 
increase.     Sometimes,  when  the  captures  were  numer- 


34  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

ous  and  the  managers  could  ailord  it,  Christians  on 
crosses  were  planted  around  the  entire  arena,  covered 
with  straw  and  pitch  and  converted  into  torches. 
These  were  night  exhibitions,  when  the  torches  would 
be  more  showy;  and  the  canvas  dome  was  taken 
away  so  that  the  smoke  and  shrieks  could  go  climbing 
to  the  stars.  Attractions  like  that  would  always 
jam  an  amphitheater.  This  one  at  Aries  has  held 
twenty-five  thousand  on  one  of  those  special  occa- 
sions. Centuries  later,  when  the  Christians  them- 
selves came  into  power,  they  showed  a  spirit  of  liber- 
ality which  shines  by  contrast.  They  burned  their- 
heretics  in  the  public  squares,  free. 

Only  bulls  and  worn-out,  cheap  horses  are  tortured 
here  to-day.  It  seems  a  pretty  tame  sport  after 
those  great  circuses  of  the  past.  But  art  is  long  and 
taste  is  fleeting.  Art  will  keep  up  with  taste,  and 
all  that  we  know  of  the  latter  is  that  it  will  change. 
Because  to-day  we  are  satisfied  with  prize  fights  and 
bull  fights  is  no  sign  that  those  who  follow  us  will 
not  demand  sword  fights  and  wild  beasts  and  Uving 
torches.  These  old  benches  will  last  through  the 
ages.  They  have  always  been  familiar  with  the  sport 
of  torture  of  one  sort  or  another.  They  await  quite 
serenely  for  what  the  centuries  may  bring. 

It  was  hard  to  leave  the  arena.  One  would  like 
to  remain  and  review  its  long  story.  What  did  the 
barbarians  do  there — those  hordes  that  swarmed  in 
and  trampled  Rome?  The  Saracens  in  the  eighth 
century  used  it  for  a  fortress  and  added  four  watch 
towers,  but  their  masonry  is  not  of  the  everlasting 
Roman  kind,  and  one  of  their  towers  has  tumbled 


THE  ROME  OF  FRANCE  35 

down.  It  would  be  no  harm  if  the  others  would 
tumble,  too.  They  lend  to  the  place  that  romance 
which  always  goes  with  the  name  "Saracen,"  but 
they  add  no  beauty. 

We  paid  a  franc  admission  when  we  came  into  the 
amphitheater,  our  tickets  being  coupon  affairs, 
admitting  us  to  a  variety  of  other  historic  places. 
The  proceeds  from  the  ruins  are  devoted  to  their 
care  and  preservation,  but  they  cannot  go  far.  Very 
likely  the  bull-fight  money  is  also  used.  That  would 
be  consistent. 

We  were  directed  to  the  Roman  Theater,  near  at 
hand,  where  the  ruin  is  ruin  indeed.  A  flight  of 
rising  stone  seats,  two  graceful  Corinthian  columns 
still  standing,  the  rest  fragments.  More  graceful  in 
its  architecture  than  the  arena,  the  theater  yielded 
more  readily  to  the  vandaHsms  of  the  conquerors 
and  the  corrosions  of  time.  As  early  as  the  third 
century  it  was  partially  pulled  down.  Later  it  was 
restored,  but  not  for  long.  The  building  bishops 
came  and  wanted  its  materials  and  ornaments  for 
their  churches.  Not  much  was  left  after  that,  but 
to-day  the  fragments  remaining  have  been  unearthed 
and  set  up  and  give  at  least  a  hint  of  its  former  glory. 
One  wonders  if  those  audiences  who  watched  Chris- 
tian slaughter  at  the  arena  came  also  to  this  chaste 
spot.  Plays  are  sometimes  given  here  to-day,  I  am 
told,  classic  reproductions,  but  it  is  hard  to  believe 
that  they  would  blend  with  this  desolated  setting. 
The  bull  fight  in  the  arena  is  even  better. 

We  went  over  to  the  church  of  St.  Trophime,  which 
is  not  a  ruin,  though  very  old.    St.  Trophime,  a 


36  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

companion  of  St.  Paul,  was  the  founder  of  the  church 
of  Aries.  He  is  said  to  have  set  up  a  memorial  to 
St.  ifitienne,  the  first  martyr,  and  on  this  consecrated 
spot  three  churches  have  been  built,  one  in  the  fourth 
century,  another  in  the  seventh,  and  this  one,  dedi- 
cated to  St.  Trophime,  in  the  twelfth,  or  earlier.  It 
is  of  supreme  historical  importance.  By  the  faithful 
it  is  beUeved  to  contain  the  remains  of  St.  Trophime 
himself.  Barbarossa  and  other  great  kings  were 
crowned  here;  every  important  ceremony  of  mediaeval 
Aries  has  been  held  here. 

It  is  one  of  the  oldest-looking  places  I  ever  saw — 
so  moldy,  so  cnmibly,  and  so  dim.  Though  a 
thousand  years  older,  the  arena  looks  fresh  as  com- 
pared with  it,  because  even  sun  and  storm  do  not 
gnaw  and  corrode  like  gloom  and  dampness.  But 
perhaps  this  is  a  softer  stone.  The  cloister  gallery, 
which  was  not  built  until  the  twelfth  century,  is  so 
permeated  with  decay  that  one  almost  fears  to  touch 
its  deHcately  carved  ornamentations  lest  they  cnmible 
in  his  hands.  Mistral  has  celebrated  the  cloister 
portal  in  a  poem,  and  that  alone  would  make  it 
sacred  to  the  Provence.  The  beautiful  gallery  is 
built  around  a  court  and  it  is  lined  with  sculpture 
and  bas-reHef,  rich  beyond  words.  Saints  and  bible 
scenes  are  the  subjects,  and  how  old,  how  time-eaten 
and  sorrowful  they  look.  One  gets  the  idea  that 
the  saints  and  martyrs  and  prophets  have  all  con- 
tracted some  wasting  malady  which  they  cannot  long 
survive  now.  But  one  must  not  be  flippant.  It  is 
a  place  where  the  feet  of  faith  went  softly  down  the 
centuries;  and,  taken  as  a  whole,  St.  Trophime,  with 


THE  ROME  OF  FRANCE  37 

its  graceful  architecture — Gothic  and  Byzantine, 
combined  with  the  Roman  fragments  brought  long 
ago  from  the  despoiled  theater — is  beautiful  and 
delicate  and  tender,  and  there  hangs  about  it  the 
atmosphere  that  comes  of  long  centuries  of  quiet  and 
sacred  things. 

Mistral's  museum  is  just  across  from  the  church, 
but  I  have  already  spoken  of  that — briefly,  when  it 
is  worth  a  volume.  One  should  be  in  a  patient  mood 
for  musetmis — either  to  see  or  to  write  of  them — a 
mood  that  somehow  does  not  go  with  automobile 
wandering,  however  deHberate.  But  I  must  give 
a  word  at  least  to  two  other  such  institutions  of  Aries, 
the  Mus6e  Lapidaire,  a  magnificent  collection  of 
pagan  and  early  Christian  sarcophagi  and  marble, 
mostly  from  the  ancient  burial  field,  the  AUscamp — 
and  the  Mus6e  Reattu. 

R^attu  was  an  Arlesian  painter  of  note  who  pro- 
duced many  pictures  and  collected  many  beautiful 
things.  His  collections  have  been  acquired  by  the 
city  of  Aries,  and  installed  in  one  of  its  most  pic- 
turesque old  buildings — the  ancient  Grand  Priory 
of  the  Knights  of  Malta.  The  stairway  is  hung  with 
tapestries  and  priceless  arras;  the  rooms  are  filled 
with  paintings,  bas-reliefs,  medallions,  marbles,  armor, 
— a  wealth  of  art  objects.  One  finds  it  hard  to  believe 
that  such  museums  can  be  owned  and  supported  by 
this  little  city — ancient,  half  forgotten,  stranded  here 
on  the  banks  of  the  Rhone.  Its  population  is  given 
as  thirty  thousand,  and  it  makes  sausages — very 
good  ones — and  there  are  some  railway  shops  that 
employ  as  many  as  fifteen  hundred  men.    Some  boat 


149J19 


38  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

building  may  still  be  done  here,  too.  But  this  is 
about  all  Aries  can  claim  in  the  way  of  industries. 
It  has  not  the  look  of  what  we  call  to-day  a  thriving 
city.  It  seems,  rather,  a  mediaeval  setting  for  the 
more  ancient  memories.  Yet  it  has  these  three 
splendid  museimis,  and  it  has  preserved  and  restored 
its  ruins,  just  as  if  it  had  a  J.  Pierpont  Morgan  behind 
it,  instead  of  an  old  poet  with  a  Nobel  prize,  and  a 
determined  little  community,  too  proud  of  its  tradi- 
tions and  its  taste  to  let  them  die.  Danbury,  Con- 
necticut, has  as  many  inhabitants  as  Aries,  and  it 
makes  about  all  the  hats  that  are  worn  in  America. 
It  is  a  busy,  rich  place,  where  nearly  everybody  owns 
an  automobile,  if  one  may  judge  by  the  street  exhibit 
any  pleasant  afternoon.  It  is  an  old  place,  too,  for 
America,  with  plenty  of  landmarks  and  traditions. 
But  I  somehow  can't  imagine  Danbury  spending  the 
money  and  the  time  to  establish  such  superb  insti- 
tutions as  these,  or  to  preserve  its  prerevolutionary 
houses.  But,  after  all,  Danbury  is  young.  It  will 
preserve  something  two  thousand  years  hence — 
probably  those  latest  Greco-Roman  facades  which 
it  is  building  now. 

Near  to  the  R6attu  Museum  is  the  palace  of  the 
Christian  Emperor  Constantine.  Constantine  came 
here  after  his  father  died,  and  fell  in  love  with  the 
beauty  and  retirement  of  the  place.  Here,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Rhone,  he  built  a  palace,  and  dreamed 
of  passing  his  days  in  it — of  making  Aries  the  capital 
of  his  empire.  His  mother,  St.  Helene,  whose  dreams 
at  Jerusalem  located  the  Holy  Sepulcher,  the  True 
Cross,  and  other  needed  relics,  came  to  visit   her 


THE  ROME  OF  FRANCE  39 

son,  and  while  here  witnessed  the  treason  and  suicide 
of  one  Maximus  Hercules,  persecutor  of  the  Chris- 
tians. That  was  early  in  the  fourth  century.  The 
daughter  of  Maximus  seems  to  have  been  converted, 
for  she  came  to  stay  at  the  palace  and  in  due  time 
bore  Constantine  a  son.  Descendants  of  Constan- 
tine  occupied  the  palace  for  a  period,  then  it  passed 
to  the  Gauls,  to  the  Goths,  and  so  down  the  invading 
and  conquering  line.  Once  a  king,  Euric  III,  was 
assassinated  here.  Other  kings  followed  and  several 
varieties  of  counts.  Their  reigns  were  usually  short 
and  likely  to  end  with  a  good  deal  of  suddenness.  It 
was  always  a  good  place  for  royalty  to  Uve  and  die. 
Until  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century  it  was 
known  as  the  "House  of  the  King,"  but  it  was  a 
ruin  by  that  time.  Only  portions  of  it  remain  now, 
chiefly  a  sort  of  rotunda  of  the  grand  hall  of  state. 
Very  little  is  left  to  show  the  ancient  richness  of  its 
walls,  but  one  may  invite  himself  to  imagine  some- 
thing— its  marbles  and  its  hangings — also  that  it 
was  just  here  that  M.  Hercules  and  King  Euric  and 
their  kind  went  the  violent  way;  it  would  be  the 
dramatic  place  for  those  occasions. 

One  may  not  know  to-day  just  what  space  the  palace 
originally  covered,  but  it  was  very  large.  Portions 
of  its  walls  appear  in  adjoining  buildings.  Exca- 
vations have  brought  to  light  marbles,  baths,  rich 
ornamentations,  all  attesting  its  former  grandeur. 
Aries  preserves  it  for  its  memories,  and  in  pride  of 
the  time  when  she  came  so  near  to  being  the  capital 
of  the  world. 


Chapter  VI 

THE   WAY   THROUGH    EDEN 

'■PHERE  is  so  much  to  see  at  Aries.  One  would  like 
•*■  to  linger  a  week,  then  a  month,  then  very  likely 
he  would  not  care  to  go  at  all.  The  past  would  get 
hold  of  him  by  that  time — the  glamour  that  hangs 
about  the  dead  centuries. 

There  had  been  rain  in  the  night  when  we  left  Aries, 
much  needed,  for  it  was  the  season  of  drought.  It 
was  mid-morning  and  the  roads  were  hard  and  per- 
fect, and  led  us  along  sparkling  waysides  and  between 
refreshed  vineyards,  and  gardens,  and  olive  groves. 
It  seemed  a  good  deal  like  traveling  through  Eden, 
and  I  don't  suppose  heaven — the  automobilist's  hea- 
ven (assuming  that  there  is  one) — is  much  better. 

I  wish  I  could  do  justice  to  the  Midi,  but  even  Mis- 
tral could  not  do  that.  It  is  the  most  fruitful,  lus- 
scious  land  one  can  imagine.  Everything  there 
seems  good  to  eat,  to  smell  of — to  devour  in  some  way. 
The  vines  were  loaded  with  purple  and  topaz  grapes, 
and  I  was  dying  to  steal  some,  though  for  a  few  francs 
we  had  bought  a  basket  of  clusters,  with  other  lunch- 
eon supphes,  in  Aries.  It  finally  became  necessary 
to  stop  and  eat  these  things — those  grape  fields  were 
too  tempting. 

It  is  my  opinion  that  nothing  in  the  world  is  more 
enjoyable   than   an   automobile   roadside   luncheon. 


THE  WAY  THROUGH  EDEN  41 

One  does  not  need  to  lug  a  heavy  basket  mile  after 
mile  until  a  suitable  place  is  foimd,  and  compromise 
at  last  because  the  flesh  rebels.  With  a  car,  a  mile, 
two  miles,  five  miles,  are  matters  of  a  few  minutes. 
You  run  along  leisurely  until  you  reach  the  brook, 
the  shade,  the  seclusion  that  invites  you.  Then  you 
are  fresh  and  cool  and  dehberate.  No  need  to  hurry 
because  of  the  long  tug  home  again.  You  enjoy  the 
things  you  have  brought,  tmfretted  by  fatigue, 
imdismayed  by  the  prospect  ahead.  You  are  in  no 
hurry  to  go.  You  linger  and  smoke  and  laze  a  little 
and  discuss  the  environment — the  fields,  the  growing 
things,  the  people  through  whose  lands  and  lives 
you  are  cutting  a  cross-section,  as  it  seems.  You 
wonder  about  their  customs,  their  diversions,  what 
they  do  in  winter,  how  it  is  in  their  homes.  You 
speculate  on  their  history,  on  what  the  land  was  like 
in  its  primeval  period  before  there  were  any  fields 
and  homes — civilized  homes — there  at  all.  Perhaps 
— though  this  is  unlikely — ^you  know  a  Httle  about 
these  things.  It  is  no  advantage;  your  speculations 
are  just  as  valuable  and  more  picturesque.  There 
are  many  pleasant  things  about  motor  gypsying, 
but  our  party,  at  least,  agreed  that  the  wayside 
luncheon  is  the  pleasantest  of  all. 

Furthermore,  it  is  economical.  Unless  one  wants 
hot  dishes,  you  can  get  more  things,  and  more  deU- 
cious  things,  in  the  village  shops  or  along  the  way 
than  you  can  find  at  the  wayside  hotel  or  restaurant, 
and  for  half  the  amount.  Our  limcheon  that  day — 
we  ate  it  between  Aries  and  Tarascon — consisted 
of  tinned  chicken,  fresh  bread  with  sweet  butter. 


42  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Roquefort  cheese,  ripe  grapes,  and  some  French 
cakes — plenty,  and  all  of  the  best,  at  a  cost  of  about 
sixty  cents  for  our  party  of  four.  And  when  we  were 
finally  ready  to  go,  and  had  cleaned  up  and  secreted 
every  particle  of  paper  or  other  refuse  (for  the  true 
motorist  never  leaves  a  place  unsightly)  we  felt  quite 
as  pleased  with  ourselves  and  the  world,  and  the 
things  of  the  infinite,  as  if  we  had  paid  two  or  three 
times  as  much  for  a  meal  within  four  walls. 


Chapter  VII 

TO  TARASCON  AND  BEAUCAIRB 

TT  is  no  great  distance  from  Aries  to  Tarascon,  and, 
*  leisurely  as  we  travel,  we  had  reached  the  home  of 
Tartarin  in  a  little  while.  We  were  tempted  to  stop 
over  at  Tarascon,  for  the  name  had  that  inviting 
sotmd  which  always  belongs  to  the  localities  of  pure 
romance — that  is  to  say,  fiction — and  it  has  come 
about  that  Tarascon  belongs  more  to  Daudet  than 
to  history,  while  right  across  the  river  is  Beaucaire, 
whose  name,  at  least,  Booth  Tarkington  has  pre- 
empted for  one  of  his  earliest  heroes.  After  all,  it 
takes  an  author  to  make  a  town  really  celebrated. 
Thousands  of  Americans  who  have  scarcely  heard 
the  name  of  Aries  are  intimately  familiar  with  that 
of  Tarascon.  Of  course  the  town  has  to  contribute 
something.  It  must  either  be  a  place  where  some- 
thing has  happened,  or  could  happen,  or  it  must  have 
a  name  with  a  fine  sound,  and  it  should  be  located 
in  about  the  right  quarter  of  the  globe.  When  such 
a  place  catches  the  fancy  of  ah  author  who  has  the 
gift  of  making  the  ideal  seem  reality,  he  has  but  to 
say  the  magic  words  and  the  fame  of  that  place  is 
sure. 

Not  that  Tarascon  has  not  had  real  history  and 
romance;  it  has  had  plenty  of  both.  Five  hundred 
years  ago  the  "Good  King  Ren6"  of  Anjou,  who  was  a 


44  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROxD 

painter  and  a  writer,  as  well  as  a  king,  came  to  Taras- 
con  to  spend  his  last  days  in  the  stem,  perpendiciilar 
castle  which  had  been  built  for  him  on  the  banks  of 
the  Rhone.  It  is  used  as  a  jail  now,  but  King  Ren6 
held  a  joyous  court  there  and  a  web  of  romance  clings 
to  his  memory.  King  Ren6's  castle  does  not  look 
like  a  place  for  romance.  It  looks  like  an  artificial 
precipice.  We  were  told  we  could  visit  it  by  making 
a  sufficiently  polite  application  to  the  Mairie,  but  it 
did  not  seem  worth  while.  In  the  first  place,  I  did 
not  know  how  to  make  a  polite  application  to  visit 
a  jail — not  in  French — and  then  it  was  better  to 
imagine  King  Rent's  festivities  than  to  look  upon  a 
reality  of  misfortime. 

The  very  name  of  Tarascon  has  to  do  with  story. 
Far  back,  in  the  dim  traditionary  days,  one  St. 
Martha  delivered  the  place  from  a  very  evil 
dragon,  the  Tarasque,  for  whom  they  showed  their 
respect  by  giving  his  name  to  their  town. 

Beaucaire,  across  the  river,  is  lighted  by  old  tradi- 
tion, too.  It  was  the  home  of  Aucassin  and  Nicol- 
lette,  for  one  thing,  and  anyone  who  has  read  that 
poem,  either  in  the  original  or  in  Andrew  Lang's 
exquisite  translation,  will  have  lived,  for  a  moment 
at  least,  in  the  tender  light  of  legendary  tale. 

We  drove  over  to  Beaucaire,  and  Narcissa  and  I 
scaled  a  garden  terrace  to  some  ruined  towers  and 
battlements,  all  that  is  left  of  the  ancient  seat  of  the 
Montmorencys.  It  is  a  romantic  ruin  from  a  romantic 
day.  It  was  built  bad:  in  the  twelve  htmdreds — 
when  there  were  still  knights  and  troubadours,  and 
the  former  jousted  at  a  great  fair  which  was  held 


TO  TARASCON  AND  BEAUCAIRE  45 

there,  and  the  latter  reclined  on  the  palace  steps, 
surrounded  by  ladies  and  gallants  in  silken  array, 
and  sang  songs  of  Palestine  and  the  Crusades.  As 
time  went  on  a  light  tissue  of  legend  was  woven  around 
the  castle  itself — half-mythical  tales  of  its  earlier 
centuries.  Figures  like  Aucassin  and  Nicollette 
emerged  and  were  made  so  real  by  those  who  chanted 
or  recited  the  marvel  of  their  adventures,  that  they 
still  Uve  and  breathe  with  youth  when  their  gallant 
castle  itself  is  no  more  than  vacant  towers  and  frag- 
mentary walls.  The  castle  of  Beaucaire  looks  across 
to  the  defiant  walls  of  King  Rent's  castle  in  Tarascon 
and  I  beUeve  there  used  to  be  some  sturdy  wars 
between  them.  If  not,  I  shall  construct  one  some 
day,  when  I  am  less  busy,  and  feeling  in  the  romantic 
form.  It  will  be  as  good  history  as  most  castle  his- 
tory, and  I  think  I  shall  make  Beaucaire  win.  King 
Ren6  was  a  good  soul,  but  I  am  doubtful  about  those 
who  followed  him,  and  his  castle,  so  suitable  to-day 
for  a  jail,  does  not  invite  sympathy.  The  Mont- 
morency castle  was  dismantled  in  1632,  according  to 
the  guidebook,  by  Richelieu,  who  beheaded  its  last 
tenant — some  say  with  a  cleaver,  a  serviceable  utensil 
for  such  work. 

Beaucaire  itself  is  not  a  pretty  town — not  a  clean 
town.  I  believe  Nicollette  was  shut  up  for  a  time  in 
*  one  of  its  houses — ^we  did  not  inquire  which  one — 
any  of  them  would  be  bad  enough  to-day. 

It  is  altogether  easy  to  keep  to  the  road  in  France. 
You  do  not  wind  in  and  out  with  unmarked  routes 
crossing  and  branching  at  every  turn.  You  travel 
a  hard,  level  way,  often  as  straight  as  a  ruling  stick 


46  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

and  pointed  in  the  right  direction.  Where  roads 
branch,  or  cross,  there  are  signboards.  All  the 
national  roads  are  numbered,  and  your  red-book  map 
shows  these  numbers — the  chances  of  mistake  being 
thus  further  lessened.  We  had  practiced  a  good 
deal  at  asking  in  the  politest  possible  French  the  way 
to  any  elusive  destination.  The  book  said  that  in 
France  one  generally  takes  off  his  hat  in  making  such 
an  inquiry,  so  I  practiced  that  until  I  got  it  to  seem 
almost  inoffensive,  not  to  say  jaunty,  and  the  formula 
*'Je  vous  demande  pardon,  but — quel  est  le  chemin 
pour — "  whatever  the  place  was.  Sometimes  I 
could  even  do  it  without  putting  in  the  "but,"  and 
was  proud,  and  anxious  to  show  it  off  at  any  oppor- 
tunity. But  it  got  dusty  with  disuse.  You  can't 
ask  a  man  ''quel  est  le  chemin*'  for  anywhere  when 
you  are  on  the  straight  road  going  there,  or  in  front 
of  a  signboard  which  is  shouting  the  information.  I 
only  got  to  unload  that  sentence  twice  between  Aries 
and  Avignon,  and  once  I  forgot  to  take  off  my  hat; 
when  I  did,  the  man  didn't  understand  me. 

With  the  blue  moimtains  traveling  always  at  our 
right,  with  level  garden  and  vineland  about  us,  we 
drifted  up  the  valley  of  the  Rhone  and  foimd  our- 
selves, in  mid-afternoon,  at  the  gates  of  Avignon. 
That  is  not  merely  a  poetic  figure.  Avignon  has 
veritable  gates — and  towering  crenelated  walls  with 
ramparts,  all  about  as  perfect  as  when  they  were 
built,  nearly  six  himdred  years  ago. 

We  had  heard  Avignon  called  the  finest  existing 
specimen  of  a  mediaeval  walled  city,  but  somehow  one 
does  not  realize  such  things  from  hearing  the  mere 


"Where  Roads  Bran'ch  OR  Cross  There  Are  Signboards.  .  .  . 
You  Can't  Ask  a  Man   'Quel  Est  le  Chemin'  for  Any- 
where When  You  Are  in  Front  of  a  Signboard  Which  Is 
Shouting  the  Information" 


TO  TARASCON  AND  BEAUCAIRE  47 

words.  We  stopped  the  car  to  stare  up  at  this  over- 
topping masonry,  trying  to  believe  that  it  had  been 
standing  there  already  three  hundred  years,  looking 
just  about  as  it  looks  to-day,  when  Shakespeare  was 
writing  plays  in  London.  Those  are  the  things  we 
never  really  believe.  We  only  acknowledge  them 
and  pass  on. 

Very  little  of  Avignon  has  overflowed  its  massive 
boundaries ;  the  fields  were  at  our  backs  as  we  halted 
in  the  great  portals.  We  halted  because  we  noticed 
the  word  "U Octroi"  on  one  of  the  towers.  But,  as 
before,  the  Voctroi  man  merely  glanced  into  our 
vehicle  and  waved  us  away. 

We  were  looking  down  a  wide  shaded  avenue  of 
rather  modem,  even  if  foreign,  aspect,  and  full  of  life. 
We  drove  slowly,  hunting,  as  we  passed  along,  for  one 
of  the  hotels  set  down  in  the  red-book  as  "comfort- 
able, with  modem  improvements,"  including  "gar. 
grat." — that  is  to  say,  garage  gratis,  such  being  the 
custom  of  this  land.  Narcissa,  who  has  an  eye  for 
hotels,  spied  one  presently,  a  rather  imposing-looking 
place  with  a  long,  imposing  name.  But  the  manage- 
ment was  quite  modest  as  to  terms  when  I  displayed 
our  T.  C.  de  France  membership  card,  and  the  "gar. 
grat." — this  time  in  the  inner  court  of  the  hotel  itself 
— was  a  neat  place  with  rimning  water  and  a  concrete 
floor.  Not  very  ancient  for  mediaeval  Avignon,  but 
one  can  worry  along  without  antiquities  in  a  hotel. 


Chapter  VIII 

GLIMPSES  OF  THE  PAST 

AVIGNON,  like  Aries,  was  colonized  by  the  Romans, 
'■  but  the  only  remains  of  that  time  are  now  in  its 
museum.  At  Aries  the  Romans  did  great  things; 
its  heyday  was  the  period  of  their  occupation.  Con- 
ditions were  different  at  Avignon.  Avenio,  as  they 
called  it,  seems  to  have  been  a  kind  of  outpost,  walled 
and  fortified,  but  not  especially  glorified.  Very  little 
was  going  on  at  Avenio.  Christians  were  seldom 
burned  there.  In  time  a  Roman  emperor  came  to 
Aries,  and  its  people  boasted  that  it  was  to  become 
the  Roman  capital.  Nothing  like  that  came  to 
Avenio;  it  would  require  another  thousand  years 
and  another  Roman  occupation  to  mature  its  grand 
destiny. 

I  do  not  know  just  how  it  worried  along  during 
those  stormy  centuries  of  waiting,  but  with  plenty 
of  variety,  no  doubt.  I  suppose  barbarians  came 
like  summer  leafage,  conquered  and  colonized,  mixing 
the  blood  of  a  new  race.  It  became  a  republic  about 
twelve  himdred  and  something — small,  but  tough 
and  warlike — commanding  the  respect  of  seigneurs 
and  counts,  even  of  kings.  Christianity,  meantime, 
had  prospered.  Avignon  had  contributed  to  the 
Crusades   and  built  churches.     Also,    a  cathedral, 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  PAST  49 

though  little  dreaming  that  in  its  sacristy  would  one 
day  lie  the  body  of  a  pope. 

Avignon's  day,  however,  was  even  then  at  hand. 
Sedition  was  rife  in  Italy  and  the  popes,  driven  from 
Rome,  sought  refuge  in  France.  Near  Avignon  was 
a  small  papal  dominion  of  which  Carpentras  was  the 
capital,  and  the  pope,  then  Clement  V,  came  often 
to  Avignon.  This  was  honor,  but  when  one  day  the 
Bishop  of  Avignon  was  made  Pope  John  XXII,  and 
established  his  seat  in  his  own  home,  the  little  city 
became  suddenly  what  Aries  had  only  hoped  to  be — 
the  capital  of  the  worid. 

If  one  were  permitted  American  parlance  at  this 
point,  he  would  say  that  a  boom  now  set  in  in  Avignon.* 
Everybody  was  gay,  everybody  busy,  everybody 
prosperous.  The  new  pope  straightway  began  to 
enlarge  and  embellish  his  palace,  and  the  commimity 
generally  followed  suit.  During  the  next  sixty  or 
seventy  years  about  everything  that  is  to-day  of 
importance  was  built  or  rebuilt.  New  churches  were 
erected,  old  ones  restored.  The  ancient  Roman  wall 
was  replaced  by  the  splendid  new  one.  The  papal 
palace  was  enlarged  and  strengthened  until  it  became 
a  mighty  fortress — one  of  the  grandest  structures  in 
Europe.  The  popes  went  back  to  Rome,  then,  but 
their  legates  remained  and  from  their  strong  citadel 
administered  the  affairs  of  that  district  for  four  tur- 
bulent centuries.  In  17  91,  Avignon  imited  her  for- 
tunes to  those  of  France,  and  through  revolution  and 
bloodshed  has  come  again  to  freedom  and  prosperity 

'Alphonse  Daudet's  "La  Mule  de  Pape,"  in  his  Lettres  de  Mon 
Moulin,  gives  a  delightful  picture  of  Avignon  at  this  period. 


50  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

and  peace,  I  do  not  know  what  the  population  of 
Avignon  was  in  the  day  of  her  greater  glory.  To-day 
it  is  about  fifty  thousand,  and,  as  it  is  full  to  the  edges, 
it  was  probably  not  more  populous  then. 

We  did  not  hurry  in  Avignon.  We  only  loitered 
about  the  streets  a  little  the  first  afternoon,  practicing 
our  French  on  the  sellers  of  postal  cards.  It  was  a 
good  place  for  such  practice.  If  there  was  a  soul 
in  Avignon  besides  ourselves  with  a  knowledge  of 
EngUsh  he  failed  to  make  himself  known.  Not  even 
in  our  hotel  was  there  a  manager,  porter,  or  waiter 
who  could  muster  an  English  word. 

Narcissa  and  I  explored  more  than  the  others  and 
discovered  the  City  Hall  and  a  theater  and  a  little 
open  square  with  a  big  monument.  We  also  got  a 
distant  glimpse  of  some  great  towering  walls  which 
we  knew  to  be  the  Palace  of  the  Popes. 

Now  and  again  we  were  assailed  by  beggars — 
soiled  and  persistent  small  boys  who  annoyed  us  a 
good  deal  imtil  we  concocted  an  impromptu  cure. 
It  was  a  poem,  in  French — and  effective: 

Allez!  Allez! 

Je  n'ai  pas  de  monnaiet 

AUonsI  Allans  I 

Je  n'ai  pas  de  Vargentl 

A  Frenchman  might  not  have  had  the  courage  to 
mortify  his  language  like  that,  but  we  had,  and  when 
we  marched  to  that  defiant  refrain  the  attacking  party 
fell  back. 

We  left  the  thoroughfare  and  wandered  down  into 
narrow    side    streets,    cobble-paved    and    winding, 


GLIMPSES  OF  THE  PAST  51 

between  high,  age-stained  walls — streets  and  walls 
that  have  surely  not  been  renewed  since  the  great 
period  when  the  coming  of  the  popes  rebuilt  Avignon. 
So  many  of  the  houses  are  apparently  of  one  age  and 
antiquity  they  might  aU  have  sprung  up  on  the  same 
day.  What  a  bustle  and  building  there  must  have 
been  in  those  first  years  after  the  popes  came !  Nothing 
could  be  too  new  and  fine  for  the  chosen  city.  Now 
they  are  old  again,  but  not  always  shabby.  Many 
of  them,  indeed,  are  of  impressive  grandeur,  with 
carved  casings  and  ponderous  doors.  No  sign  of 
life  about  these — no  glimpse  of  luxury,  faded  or 
fresh — within.  Whatever  the  life  they  hold — what- 
ever its  past  glories  or  present  decline,  it  is  shut 
away.  Only  the  shabbier  homes  were  open — women 
at  their  evening  duties,  children  playing  about  the 
stoop.  They  had  nothing  to  conceal.  Tradition, 
lineage,  pride,  poverty — they  had  inherited  their 
share  of  these  things,  but  they  did  not  seem  to  be 
worrying  about  it.  Their  affairs  were  open  to  inspec- 
tion ;  and  their  habits  of  dress  and  occupation  caused 
us  to  linger,  tmtil  the  narrow  streets  grew  dim  and 
more  full  of  evening  echoes,  while  light  began  to  twinkle 
in  the  little  basement  shops  where  the  ancestors  of 
these  people  had  bought  and  sold  for  such  a  long, 
long  time. 


Chapter  IX 

IN  THE  CITADEL  OP   FAITH 

'\X  7E  were  not  very  thorough  sight-seers.  We  did 
'  "  not  take  a  guidebook  in  one  hand  and  a  pencil 
in  the  other  and  check  the  items,  thus  cleaning  up 
in  the  fashion  of  the  neat,  businesslike  tourist.  We 
seldom  even  had  a  program.  We  just  wandered  out 
in  some  general  direction,  and  made  a  discovery  or 
two,  looked  it  over,  surmised  about  it  and  passed 
judgment  on  its  artistic  and  historical  importance, 
just  as  if  we  knew  something  of  those  things;  then 
when  we  got  to  a  quiet  place  we  took  out  the  book 
and  looked  up  what  we  had  seen,  and  quite  often, 
with  the  book's  assistance,  reversed  our  judgments 
and  went  back  and  got  an  altogether  new  set  of 
impressions,  and  kept  whichever  we  liked  best.  It 
was  a  loose  system,  to  be  recommended  only  for  its 
variety.  At  the  church  of  St.  Agricole,  for  instance, 
which  we  happened  upon  when  we  started  out  one 
morning,  we  had  a  most  interesting  half  hour  dis- 
cussing the  age  and  beauty  of  its  crumbling  exterior 
and  wandering  about  in  its  dimness,  speculating  con- 
cerning its  frescoes  and  stained  marbles  and  ancient 
tombs.  When,  later,  we  sat  on  the  steps  outside  and 
looked  it  up  and  found  it  had  been  established  away 
back  in  680,  and  twice  since  restored;  that  the  fif- 
teenth-century holy-water  basin  was   an   especially 


IN  THE  CITADEL  OF  FAITH  53 

fine  one;  that  the  tombs  and  altar  piece,  the  sculp- 
ture and  frescoes  were  regarded  as  "remarkable 
examples,"  we  were  deeply  impressed  and  went  back 
to  verify  these  things.  Then  we  could  see  that  it 
was  all  just  as  the  book  said. 

But  the  procedure  was  somewhat  different  at  the 
Palace  of  the  Popes.  We  knew  where  we  were  going 
then,  for  we  saw  its  towers  looming  against  the  sky, 
and  no  one  could  mistake  that  pile  in  Avignon.  Fur- 
thermore, we  paid  a  small  fee  at  its  massive  arched 
entrance,  and  there  was  a  guardian,  or  guide,  to  show 
us  through.  It  is  true  he  spoke  only  French — 
Provengal  French — but  two  gracious  Italian  ladies 
happened  to  be  going  through  at  the  same  time  and, 
like  all  cultured  continentals,  they  spoke  a  variety 
of  tongues,  including  American.  The  touch  of  travel 
makes  the  whole  world  kin,  and  they  threw  out  a 
line  when  they  saw  us  floimdering,  and  towed  us 
through.  It  was  a  gentle  courtesy  which  we  accepted 
with  thankful  hearts. 

We  were  in  the  central  court  first,  the  dull,  sinister 
walls  towering  on  every  side.  The  guide  said  that 
executions  had  taken  place  there,  and  once,  in  later 
times — the  period  of  the  Revolution — a  massacre  in 
which  seventy  perished.  He  also  mentioned  a  bishop 
of  the  earlier  period  who,  having  fallen  into  disfavor, 
was  skinned  alive  and  burned  just  outside  the  palace 
entrance.    Think  of  doing  that  to  a  bishop ! 

Our  conductor  showed  us  something  which  we 
were  among  the  first  to  see.  Excavation  was  going 
on,  and  near  the  entrance  some  workmen  were  uncov- 
ering a  large  square  basin — a  swimming  pool,  he  said — 


54  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

probably  of  Roman  times.  Whatever  had  stood 
there  had  doubtless  fallen  into  obHterated  ruin  by 
the  time  the  papal  palace  was  begim. 

A  survey  of  the  court  interior  showed  that  a  vast 
scheme  of  restoration  was  going  on.  The  old  fortress 
had  suffered  from  siege  more  than  once,  and  time 
had  not  spared  it;  but  with  that  fine  pride  which  the 
French  have  in  their  monuments,  and  with  a  mimifi- 
cence  which  would  seem  to  be  limitless,  they  were 
reconstructing  perfectly  every  ruined  part,  and 
would  spend  at  least  two  million  dollars,  we  were 
told,  to  make  the  labor  complete.  Battered  comers 
of  towers  had  been  carefully  rebuilt,  tumbled  para- 
pets replaced.  We  stood  facing  an  exquisite  mul- 
lioned  window  whose  carved  stone  outlines  were 
entirely  new,  yet  delicately  and  finely  cut,  certainly 
at  a  cost  of  many  thousand  francs.  The  French  do 
not  seem  to  consider  expense  in  a  work  of  that  sort. 
Concrete  imitations  will  not  do.  Whatever  is  replaced 
must  be  as  it  was  in  the  beginning. 

Inside  we  found  ourselves  in  the  stately  audience 
room,  measuring  some  fifty  by  one  himdred  and 
eighty  feet,  its  lofty  ceiling  supported  by  massive 
Gothic  arches,  all  as  complete  as  when  constructed. 
Each  missing  piece  or  portion  has  been  replaced. 
It  was  scarcely  more  perfect  when  the  first  papal 
audience  was  held  there  and  when  Queen  Jeanne  of 
Naples  came  to  plead  for  absolution,  nearly  six  cen- 
turies ago.  It  was  of  overpowering  size  and  interest, 
and  in  one  of  the  upper  comers  was  a  picture  I  shall 
not  soon  forget.  It  was  not  a  painting  or  tapestry, 
but  it  might  have  been  either  of  these  things  and 


IN  THE  CITADEL  OF  FAITH  55 

less  beautiful.  It  was  a  living  human  being,  a  stone 
carver  on  a  swinging  high  seat,  dressed  in  his  faded 
blue  cap  and  blouse  and  chopping  away  at  a  lintel. 
But  he  had  the  face  and  beard  and,  somehow,  the 
figure  of  a  saint.  He  turned  to  regard  us  with  a 
mild,  meditative  interest,  the  dust  on  his  beard  and 
dress  completing  the  harmony  with  the  gray  wall 
behind  him,  the  embodied  spirit  of  restoration. 

We  ascended  to  the  pontifical  chapel,  similar  in 
size  and  appearance  to  the  room  below.  We  passed 
to  other  gigantic  apartments,  some  of  them  rudely 
and  elaborately  decorated  by  the  military  that  in 
later  years  made  this  a  garrison.  We  were  taken  to 
the  vast  refectory,  where  once  there  was  a  great 
central  table,  the  proportions  of  which  were  plainly 
marked  by  an  outline  on  the  stone  floor,  worn  by  the 
feet  of  feasting  churchmen.  Then  we  went  to  the 
kitchen,  still  more  impressive  in  its  suggestion  of  the 
stouter  needs  of  piety.  Its  chimney  is  simply  a 
gigantic  central  fimnel  that,  rising  directly  from  the 
four  walls,  goes  towering  and  tapering  toward  the 
stars.  I  judge  the  cooks  built  their  fires  in  the  center 
of  this  room,  hanging  their  pots  on  cranes,  swinging 
their  meats  barbecue  fashion,  opening  the  windows 
for  air  and  draught.  Those  old  popes  and  legates  were 
no  weaklings,  to  have  a  kitchen  like  that.  Their 
appetites  and  digestions,  like  their  faith,  were  of  a 
robust  and  militant  sort. 

I  dare  say  it  would  require  a  week  to  go  through 
all  this  palace,  so  the  visitor  is  shown  only  samples 
of  it.  We  ascended  to  one  of  the  towers  and  looked 
down,  far  down,  on  the  roofs  of  Avignon— an  expanse 


S6  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

of  brown  tiling,  toned  by  the  ages,  but  otherwise 
not  greatly  different  from  what  the  popes  saw  when 
this  tower  and  these  housetops  were  new.  Beyond 
are  the  blue  hills  which  have  not  changed.  Some- 
where out  there  Petrarch's  Laura  was  buried,  but  the 
grave  has  vanished  utterly,  the  church  is  a  mere 
remnant. 

As  we  stood  in  the  window  a  cold  breath  of  wind 
suddenly  blew  in — almost  piercing  for  the  season. 
"The  mistral,"  our  conductor  said,  and,  though  he 
did  not  cross  himself,  we  knew  by  his  exalted  smile 
that  he  felt  in  it  the  presence  of  the  poet  of  the  south. 

Then  he  told  us  that  Mistral  had  appointed  him 
as  one  of  those  who  were  commissioned  to  preserve 
in  its  purity  the  Provencal  tongue.  That  he  was 
very  proud  of  it  was  certain,  and  willing  to  let  that 
wind  blow  on  him  as  a  sort  of  benediction.  It  is 
said,  however,  that  the  mistral  wind  is  not  always 
agreeable  in  Avignon.  It  blows  away  disease,  but 
it  is  likely  to  overdo  its  work.  "Windy  Avignon, 
liable  to  the  plague  when  it  has  not  the  wind,  and 
plagued  by  the  wind  when  it  has  it,"  is  a  saying  at 
least  as  old  as  this  palace. 

We  got  a  generous  example  of  it  when  we  at  last 
descended  to  the  street.  There  it  swirled  and  raced 
and  grabbed  at  us  until  we  had  to  button  everything 
tightly  and  hold  fast  to  our  hats.  We  took  refuge 
in  the  old  cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  des  D6mes,  where 
John  XXII,  who  brought  this  glory  to  Avignon,  lies 
in  his  Gothic  tomb.  All  the  popes  of  Avignon  were 
crowned  here ;  it  was  the  foremost  church  of  Christen- 
dom for  the  better  part  of  a  century.    We  could  see 


IN  THE  CITADEL  OF  FAITH  57 

but  little  of  the  interior,  for,  with  the  now  clouded 
sky,  the  place  was  too  dark.  In  the  small  chapel 
where  the  tomb  stands  it  was  dim  and  still.  It  is 
the  holy  place  of  Avignon. 

A  park  adjoins  the  church  and  we  went  into  it, 
but  the  mistral  wind  was  tearing  through  the  trees 
and  we  crossed  and  descended  by  a  long  flight  to 
the  narrow  streets.  Everywhere  about  us  the  lower 
foundations  of  the  papal  palace  joined  the  living  rock, 
its  towers  seeming  to  climb  upward  to  the  sky.  It 
was  as  if  it  had  grown  out  of  the  rock,  indestructible, 
eternal,  itself  a  rock  of  ages. 

We  are  always  saying  how  small  the  world  is,  and 
we  had  it  suddenly  brought  home  to  us  as  we  stood 
there  under  the  shadow  of  those  overtopping  heights. 
We  had  turned  to  thank  our  newly  made  friends 
and  to  say  good-by.  One  of  them  said,  "You  are 
from  America;  perhaps  you  might  happen  to  know 
a  friend  of  ours  there,"  and  she  named  one  whom  we 
did  know  very  well  indeed — one,  in  fact,  whose  house 
we  had  visited  only  a  few  months  before.  How 
strange  it  seemed  to  hear  that  name  from  two  women 
of  Florence  there  in  the  ancient  city,  tmder  those 
everlasting  walls. 


Chapter  X 

AN   OLD   TRADITION   AND   A   NEW   EXPERIENCE 

A  MONG  the  things  I  did  on  the  ship  was  to  read 
-'*  the  Automobile  Instruction  Book.  I  had  never 
done  it  before.  I  had  left  all  technical  matters  to  a 
man  hired  and  trained  for  the  business.  Now  I  was 
going  to  a  strange  land  with  a  resolve  to  do  all  the 
things  myself.     So  I  read  the  book. 

It  was  as  fascinating  as  a  novel,  and  more  impres- 
sive. There  never  was  a  novel  like  it  for  action  and 
psychology.  When  I  came  to  the  chapter  "Thirty- 
seven  reasons  why  the  motor  may  not  start,"  and 
feverishly  read  what  one  had  better  try  in  the  cir- 
cumstances, I  could  see  that  as  a  subject  for  strong 
emotional  treatment  a  human  being  is  nothing  to 
an  automobile. 

Then  there  was  the  oiling  diagram.  A  physio- 
logical chart  would  be  nowhere  beside  it.  It  was  a 
perfect  maze  of  hair  lines  and  arrow  points,  and  looked 
as  if  it  needed  to  be  combed.  There  were  places  to 
be  oiled  daily,  others  to  be  oiled  weekly,  some  to  be 
oiled  monthly,  some  every  thousand  miles.  There 
were  also  places  to  be  greased  at  alj  these  periods, 
and  some  when  you  happened  to  think  of  it.  You 
had  to  put  on  your  glasses  and  follow  one  of  the  fine 
lines  to  the  lubricating  point,  then  try  to  keep  the 
point  in  your  head  imtil  you  could  get  imder  the  car, 


AN  OLD  TRADITION  59 

or  over  the  car,  or  into  the  car,  and  trace  it  home. 
I  could  see  that  this  was  going  to  be  interesting  when 
the  time  came. 

I  did  not  consider  that  it  had  come  when  we  landed 
at  Marseilles.  I  said  to  the  garage  man  there,  in 
my  terse  French  idiom,  "Make  it  the  oil  and  grease," 
and  walked  away.  Now,  at  Avignon,  the  new 
regime  must  begin.  In  the  bright  Uttle,  light  little 
hotel  garage  we  would  set  our  car  in  order.  I  say 
"we"  because  Narcissa,  aged  fifteen,  being  of  a  prac- 
tical turn,  said  she  would  help  me.  I  would  "make 
it  the  on  and  grease,"  and  Narcissa  would  wash  and 
polish.  So  we  began.  The  Joy,  aged  ten,  was  audience. 

Narcissa  enjoyed  her  job.  There  was  a  hose  in  it, 
and  a  sponge  and  nice  rubbing  rags  and  polish,  and 
she  went  at  it  in  her  strenuous  way,  and  hosed  me 
up  one  side  and  down  the  other  at  times  when  I  was 
tracing  some  blind  lead  and  she  wasn't  noticing 
carefully. 

I  said  I  would  make  a  thorough  job  of  it.  I  would 
oil  and  grease  all  the  daily,  weekly,  and  monthly, 
and  even  the  once-in-a-while  places.  We  would  start 
fair  from  Avignon. 

I  am  a  resolute  person.  I  followed  those  tangled 
lines  and  labyrinthian  ways  into  the  vital  places  of 
our  faithful  vehicle.  Some  led  to  caps,  big  and  little, 
which  I  filled  with  grease.  Most  of  them  were  full 
already,  but  I  gave  them  another  dab  for  luck. 
Some  of  the  Unes  led  to  tiny  caps  and  holes  into  which 
I  squirted  oil.  Some  led  to  a  dim  uncertainty,  into 
which  I  squirted  or  dabbed  something  in  a  general 
way.     Some  led  to  mere  blanks,  and  I  greased  those. 


6o  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

It  sounds  rather  easy,  but  that  is  due  to  my  fluent 
style.  It  was  not  easy ;  it  was  a  hot,  messy,  scratchy, 
grunting  job.  Those  lines  were  mostly  blind  leads, 
and  full  of  smudgy,  even  painful  surprises.  Some 
people  would  have  been  profane,  but  I  am  not  like 
that — ^not  with  Narcissa  observing  me.  One  hour, 
two,  went  by,  and  I  was  still  consulting  the  chart 
and  dabbing  with  the  oil  can  and  grease  stick.  The 
chart  began  to  show  wear;  it  would  not  need  greasing 
again  for  years. 

Meantime  Narcissa  had  finished  her  washing  and 
poUshing,  and  was  putting  dainty  touches  on  the 
glass  and  metal  features  to  kill  time.  I  said  at  last 
that  possibly  I  had  missed  some  places,  but  I  didn't 
think  they  could  be  important  ones.  Narcissa  looked 
at  me,  then,  and  said  that  maybe  I  had  missed  places 
on  the  car  but  that  I  hadn't  missed  any  on  myself. 
She  said  I  was  a  sight  and  probably  never  could  be 
washed  clean  again.  It  is  true  that  my  hands  were 
quite  solidly  black,  and,  while  I  did  not  recall  wiping 
them  on  my  face,  I  must  have  done  so.  When  Nar- 
cissa asked  how  soon  I  was  going  to  grease  the  car 
again,  I  said  possibly  in  about  a  thousand  years. 
But  that  was  petulance;  I  knew  it  would  be  sooner. 
Underneath  all  I  really  had  a  triumphant  feeling,  and 
Narcissa  was  justly  proud  of  her  work,  too.  We 
agreed  that  otu*  car  had  never  looked  handsomer 
and  shinier  since  om*  first  day  of  ownership.  I  said 
I  was  certain  it  had  never  been  so  thoroughly  greased. 
We  would  leave  Avignon  in  style. 

We  decided  to  cross  the  Rhone  at  Avignon.  We 
wanted  at  least  a  passing  glance  at  Villeneuve,  and 


AN  OLD  TRADITION  6i 

a  general  view  of  Avignon  itself,  which  was  said  to 
be  finest  from  across  the  river.  We  would  then  con- 
tinue up  the  west  bank — there  being  a  special  reason 
for  this — a  reason  with  a  village  in  it — one  Beauchastel 
— not  set  down  on  any  of  our  maps,  but  intimately 
concerned  with  our  travel  program,  as  will  appear 
later. 

We  did  not  leave  Avignon  by  the  St.  B6n6zet 
bridge.  We  should  have  liked  that,  for  it  is  one  of 
those  bridges  built  by  a  miracle,  away  back  in  the 
twelfth  century  when  they  used  miracles  a  good  deal 
for  such  work.  Sometimes  Satan  was  induced  to 
build  them  overnight,  but  I  beHeve  that  was  still 
earlier.  Satan  seems  to  have  retired  from  active 
bridge-building  by  the  twelfth  century.  It  was  a 
busy  period  for  him  at  home. 

So  the  B6n6zet  bridge  was  built  by  a  boy  of  that 
name — a  little  shepherd  of  twelve,  who  received  a 
command  in  a  dream  to  go  to  Avignon  and  build  a 
bridge  across  the  Rhone.     He  said: 

"I  cannot  leave  my  sheep,  and  I  have  but  three 
farthings  in  the  world." 

"Your  flocks  will  not  stray,"  said  the  voice,  "and 
an  angel  will  lead  thee." 

Ben6zet  awoke  and  found  beside  him  a  pilgrim 
whom  he  somehow  knew  to  be  an  angel.  So  they 
journeyed  together  and  after  many  adventures  reached 
Avignon.  Here  the  pilgrim  disappeared  and  B6n6zet 
went  alone  to  where  a  bishop  was  preaching  to  the 
people.  There,  in  the  presence  of  the  assembly, 
B6n6zet  stated  clearly  that  Heaven  had  sent  him  to 
build  a  bridge  across  the  Rhone.     Angry  at  the  inter- 


62  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

ruption,  the  bishop  ordered  the  ragged  boy  to  be 
taken  in  charge  by  the  guard  and  punished  for  inso- 
lence and  untruth.  That  was  an  ominous  order. 
Men  had  been  skinned  alive  on  those  instructions. 
But  Benezet  repeated  his  words  to  the  officer,  a  rough 
man,  who  said : 

"Can  a  beggar  boy  like  you  do  what  neither  the 
saints  nor  Emperor  Charlemagne  has  been  able  to 
accomplish?  Pick  up  this  stone  as  a  beginning,  and 
carry  it  to  the  river.  If  you  can  do  that  I  may  believe 
in  you." 

It  was  a  sizable  stone,  being  thirteen  feet  long  by 
seven  broad — thickness  not  given,  though  probably 
three  feet,  for  it  was  a  fragment  of  a  Roman  wall. 
It  did  not  trouble  Ben6zet,  however.  He  said  his 
prayers,  and  lightly  lifted  it  to  his  shoulder  and 
carried  it  across  the  town!  Some  say  he  whistled 
softly  as  he  passed  along. 

I  wish  I  had  lived  then.  I  would  almost  be  willing 
to  trade  centuries  to  see  Benezet  surprise  those 
people,  carrying  in  that  easy  way  a  stone  that  reached 
up  to  the  second-story  windows.  Benezet  carried 
the  stone  to  the  bank  of  the  river  and  set  it  down 
where  the  first  arch  of  the  bridge  would  stand. 

There  was  no  trouble  after  that.  Everybody 
wanted  to  stand  well  with  Benezet.  Labor  and  con- 
tributions came  imasked.  In  eleven  years  the  great 
work  was  finished,  but  Benezet  did  not  live  to  see  it. 
He  died  four  years  before  the  final  stones  were  laid, 
was  buried  in  a  chapel  on  the  bridge  itself  and  can- 
onized as  a  saint.  There  is  another  story  about  him, 
but  I  like  this  one  best. 


AN  OLD  TRADITION  63 

Ben^zet's  bridge  was  a  gay  place  during  the  days 
of  the  popes  at  Avignon.  Music  and  dancing  were 
continuously  going  on  there.  It  is  ready  for  another 
miracle  now.  Only  four  arches  of  its  original  eighteen 
are  standing.  Storm  and  flood  did  not  destroy  it, 
but  war.  Besiegers  and  besieged  broke  down  the 
arches,  and  at  last,  more  than  two  hundred  years 
ago,  repairs  were  given  up.  It  is  a  fine,  firm-looking 
fragment  that  remains.  One  wishes,  for  the  sake  of 
the  little  shepherd  boy,  that  it  might  be  restored  once 
more  and  kept  solid  through  time. 

Passing  along  under  the  ramparts  of  Avignon,  we 
crossed  the  newer,  cheaper  bridge,  and  took  the  first 
turn  to  the  right.  It  was  a  leafy  way,  and  here  and 
there  between  the  trees  we  had  splendid  glimpses 
of  the  bastioned  walls  and  castle-crowned  heights 
of  Avignon.  Certainly  there  is  no  more  impressive 
mediaeval  picture  in  all  Europe. 

But  on  one  account  we  were  not  entirely  satisfied. 
It  was  not  the  view  that  disturbed  us;  it  was  our- 
selves— our  car.  We  were  smoking — smoking  badly, 
disgracefully;  one  could  not  deny  it.  In  New  York 
City  we  would  have  been  taken  in  charge  at  once. 
At  first  I  said  it  was  only  a  little  of  the  fresh  oil  burn- 
ing off  the  engine,  and  that  it  would  stop  presently. 
But  that  excuse  wore  out.  It  would  have  taken 
quarts  to  make  a  smudge  like  that.  When  the  wind 
was  with  us  we  traveled  in  a  cloud,  like  prophets  and 
deities  of  old,  and  the  passengers  grumbled.  The 
Joy  suggested  that  we  would  probably  blow  up  soon. 

Then  we  began  to  make  another  discovery;  when 
now  and  then  the  smoke  cleared  away  a  little,  we 


64  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

found  we  were  not  in  Villeneuve  at  all.  We  had  not 
entirely  crossed  the  river,  but  only  halfway;  we 
were  on  an  island.  I  began  to  feel  that  our  hand- 
some start  had  not  turned  out  well. 

We  backed  around  and  drove  slowly  to  the  bridge 
again,  our  distinction  getting  more  massive  and  solid 
every  minute.  Disaster  seemed  imminent.  The  pas- 
sengers were  inclined  to  get  out  and  walk.  I  said, 
at  last,  that  we  would  go  back  to  a  garage  I  had 
noticed  outside  the  walls.  I  put  it  on  the  groimds 
that  we  needed  gasoline. 

It  was  not  far,  and  the  doors  stood  open.  The 
men  inside  saw  us  coming  with  our  gorgeous  white 
tail  filling  the  landscape  behind  us,  and  got  out  of 
the  way.  Then  they  gathered  cautiously  to  examine  us. 

"Too  much  oil,"  they  said. 

In  my  enthusiasm  I  had  overdone  the  thing.  I 
had  poured  quarts  into  the  crank  case  when  there 
was  probably  enough  there  already.  I  had  not  been 
altogether  to  blame.  Two  little  telltale  cocks  that 
were  designed  to  drip  when  there  was  sufficient  oil 
had  failed  to  drip  because  they  were  stopped  with 
dust.  Being  new  and  green,  I  had  not  thought  of 
that  possibility.  A  workman  poked  a  wire  into 
those  little  cocks  and  drew  off  the  fuel  we  had  been 
burning  in  that  lavish  way.  So  I  had  learned  some- 
thing, but  it  seemed  a  lot  of  smoke  for  such  a  small 
spark  of  experience.  Still,  it  was  a  relief  to  know  that  it 
was  nothing  worse,  and  while  the  oil  was  dripping  to 
its  proper  level  we  went  back  into  the  gates  of  Avi- 
gnon, where,  limching  in  a  pretty  garden  imder  some 
trees,  we  made  light  of  our  troubles,  as  is  our  way. 


Chapter  XI 

WAYSIDE  ADVENTURES 

OO  we  took  a  new  start  and  made  certain  that  we  en- 
^  tirely  crossed  the  river  this  time.  We  were  in  ViUe- 
neuve-les- Avignon — that  is,  the  "new  town" — but  it 
did  not  get  that  name  recently,  if  one  may  judge  from 
its  looks.  Villeneuve,  in  fact,  is  fourteen  hundred 
years  old,  and  shows  its  age.  It  was  in  its  glory  six 
centuries  ago,  when  King  Philippe  le  Bel  built  his 
tower  at  the  end  of  B6nezet's  bridge,  and  Jean  le 
Bon  built  one  of  the  sternest-looking  fortresses  in 
France — Fort  St.  Andr6.  Time  has  made  the 
improvements  since  then.  It  has  stained  the  walls 
and  dulled  the  sharp  masonry  of  these  moniunents; 
it  has  crushed  and  crumbled  the  feebler  structures 
and  filled  the  streets  with  emptiness  and  silence. 
Villeneuve  was  a  thronging,  fighting,  praying  place 
once,  but  the  throng  has  been  reduced  and  the  fight- 
ing and  praying  have  become  matters  of  individual 
enterprise. 

I  wish  now  we  had  lingered  at  Villeneuve-les- 
Avignon.  I  have  rarely  seen  a  place  that  seemed  so 
to  invite  one  to  forget  the  activities  of  life  and  go 
groping  about  among  the  fragments  of  history. 
But  we  were  imder  the  influence  of  our  bad  start, 
and   impelled   to   move   on.    Also,    Villeneuve   was 


66  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

overshadowed  by  the  magnificence  of  the  Palace  of 
the  Popes,  which,  from  its  eternal  seat  on  le  Rocher 
des  Doms,  still  claimed  us.  We  briefly  visited  St. 
Andr6,  the  tower  of  Philippe  le  Bel,  and  loitered  a 
little  in  a  Chartreuse  monastery — a  perfect  wilder- 
ness of  ruin;  then  slipped  away,  following  the  hard, 
smooth  road  through  a  garden  and  wonderland,  the 
valley  of  the  Rhone. 

I  believe  there  are  no  better  vineyards  in  France 
than  those  between  Avignon  and  Bagnols.  The  qual- 
ity of  the  grapes  is  another  matter;  they  are  prob- 
ably sour.  All  the  way  along  those  luscious  topaz 
and  amethyst  clusters  had  been  disturbing,  but  my 
conscience  had  held  firm  and  I  had  passed  them  by. 
Sometimes  I  said:  "There  are  tons  of  those  grapes; 
a  few  bimches  would  never  be  missed."  But  Nar- 
cissa  and  the  others  said  it  would  be  stealing;  besides, 
there  were  houses  in  plain  view. 

But  there  is  a  limit  to  all  things.  In  a  level,  shel- 
tered place  below  Bagnols  we  passed  a  vineyard 
shut  in  by  trees,  with  no  house  in  sight.  And  what 
a  vineyard!  Ripening  in  the  afternoon  sun,  clus- 
tered such  gold  and  purple  bunches  as  were  once 
warmed  by  the  light  of  Eden.  I  looked  casually  in 
different  directions  and  slowed  down.  Not  a  sign 
of  life  anywhere.  I  brought  the  car  to  a  stop.  I 
said,  "This  thing  has  gone  far  enough." 

Conscience  dozed.  The  protests  of  the  others  fell 
on  heedless  ears.  I  firmly  crossed  the  irrigating 
ditch  which  runs  along  all  those  French  roads,  stepped 
among  the  laden  vines,  picked  one  of  those  lucent, 
yellow  bunches  and  was  about  to  pick  another  when 


WAYSIDE  ADVENTURES  67 

I  noticed  something  with  a  human  look  stir  to  life 
a  little  way  down  the  row. 

Conscience  awoke  with  something  like  a  spasm. 
I  saw  at  once  that  taking  those  grapes  was  wrong;  I 
almost  dropped  the  bimch  I  had.  Narcissa  says  I 
ran,  but  that  is  a  mistake.  There  was  not  room. 
I  made  about  two  steps  and  plimged  into  the  irri- 
gating canal,  which  I  disremembered  for  the  moment, 
my  eyes  being  fixed  on  the  car.  Narcissa  says  she 
made  a  grab  at  my  grapes  as  they  sailed  by.  I 
seemed  to  be  a  good  while  getting  out  of  the  irrigating 
ditch,  but  Narcissa  thinks  I  was  reasonably  prompt. 
I  had  left  the  engine  nmning,  and  some  seconds  later, 
when  we  were  putting  temptation  behind  us  on  third 
speed,  I  noticed  that  the  passengers  seemed  to  be 
laughing.  When  I  inquired  as  to  what  amused 
them  they  finally  gasped  out  that  the  thing  which 
had  moved  among  the  grapevines  was  a  goat,  as  if 
that  made  any  difference  to  a  person  with  a  sensitive 
conscience. 

It  is  not  likely  that  any  reader  of  these  chapters 
will  stop  overnight  at  Bagnols.  We  should  hardly 
have  rested  there,  but  evening  was  coming  on  and 
the  sky  had  a  stormy  look.  Later  we  were  glad, 
for  we  found  ourselves  in  an  inn  where  d'Artagnan, 
or  his  kind,  lodged,  in  the  days  when  knights  went 
riding.  Travelers  did  not  arrive  in  automobiles 
when  that  hostelry  was  built,  and  not  frequently  in 
carriages.  They  came  on  horseback  and  clattered 
up  to  the  open  door  and  ordered  tankards  of  good 
red  wine,  and  drank  while  their  horses  stretched 
their  necks  to  survey  the  interior  scenery.    The  old 


68  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

worn  cobbles  are  still  at  the  door,  and  not  much  has 
changed  within.  A  niche  holds  a  row  of  candles, 
and  the  traveler  takes  one  of  them  and  lights  himself 
to  bed.  His  room  is  an  expanse  and  his  bed  stands 
in  a  curtained  alcove — the  bedstead  an  antique,  the 
bed  billowy,  clean,  and  comfortable,  as  all  beds  are 
in  France.  Nothing  has  been  changed  there  for  a 
long  time.  The  latest  conveniences  are  of  a  date 
not  more  recent  than  the  reign  of  Marie  Antoinette, 
for  they  are  exactly  the  kind  she  used,  still  to  be 
seen  at  Versailles.  And  the  dinner  was  good,  with 
red  and  white  flagons  strewn  all  down  the  table — 
such  a  dinner  as  d'Artagnan  and  his  wild  comrades 
had,  no  doubt,  and  if  prices  have  not  changed  they 
paid  five  francs  fifty,  or  one  dollar  and  ten  cents  each, 
for  dinner,  lodging,  and  petit  dijeuner  (coffee,  rolls,  and 
jam) — garage  free. 

Bagnols  is  imimportant  to  the  tourist,  but  it  is 
old  and  quaint,  and  it  has  what  may  be  foimd  in 
many  unimportant  places  in  France,  at  least  one 
beautiful  work  of  art — a  soldier's  monimient,  in  this 
instance;  not  a  stiff  effigy  of  an  infantryman  with  a 
musket,  cut  by  some  gifted  tombstone  sculptor,  but 
a  female  figure  of  Victory,  full  of  vibrant  life  and 
inspiration — a  true  work  of  art.  France  is  full  of 
such  things  as  that — one  fimds  them  in  most  unex- 
pected places. 

The  valley  of  the  Rhone  grew  more  picturesque 
as  we  ascended.  Now  and  again,  at  our  left,  rocky 
bluffs  rose  abruptly,  some  of  them  crowned  with 
ruined  towers  and  equally  ruined  villages,  remnants 
of  feudalism,  of  the  lord  and  his  vassals  who  had 


WAYSIDE  ADVENTURES  69 

fought  and  flourished  there  in  that  time  when  France 
was  making  the  romantic  material  which  writers 
ever  since  have  been  so  busily  remaking  and  adorn- 
ing that  those  old  originals  would  stare  and  gasp  if 
they  could  examine  some  of  it  now.  How  fine  and 
grand  it  seems  to  picture  the  lord  and  his  men,  all 
bright  and  shining,  riding  out  imder  the  portcullis 
on  glossy  prancing  and  armored  horses  to  meet  some 
aggressive  and  equally  shining  detachment  of  feudal- 
ism from  the  next  hilltop.  In  the  valley  they  meet, 
with  ringing  cries  and  the  clash  of  steel.  Foeman 
matches  foeman — it  is  a  series  of  splendid  duels, 
combats  to  be  recotmted  by  the  fireside  for  genera- 
tions. Then,  at  the  end,  the  knightly  surrender  of 
the  conquered,  the  bended  knee  and  acknowledg- 
ment of  fealty,  gracious  speeches  from  the  victor 
as  to  the  bravery  and  prowess  of  the  defeated, 
after  which,  the  welcome  of  fair  ladies  and  high 
wassail  for  all  concerned.  Everybody  happy,  every- 
body satisfied:  wounds  apparently  do  not  count 
or  interfere  with  festivities.  The  dead  disappear 
in  some  magic  way.  I  do  not  recall  that  they  are 
ever  buried. 

Just  above  Rochemaure  was  one  of  the  most 
imposing  of  these  ruins.  The  castle  that  crowned 
the  hilltop  had  been  a  fine  structure  in  its  day. ,  The 
smrounding  outer  wall  which  inclosed  its  village 
extended  downward  to  the  foot  of  the  hill  to  the 
road — and  still  inclosed  a  village,  though  the  more 
ancient  houses  seemed  tenantless.  It  was  built  for 
offense  and  defense,  that  was  certain,  and  doubt- 
less had  been  used  for  both.    We  did  not  stop  to  dig 


TO  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT    ABROAD 

up  that  romance.  Not  far  away,  by  the  roadside, 
stood  what  was  apparently  a  Roman  column.  It 
had  been  already  old  and  battered — a  mere  fragment 
of  a  niin — when  the  hilltop  castle  and  its  village 
were  brave  and  new. 

It  was  above  Rochemaure — I  did  not  identify  the 
exact  point — that  an  opportunity  came  which  very 
likely  I  shall  never  have  again.  On  a  bluff  high 
above  an  ancient  village,  so  old  and  curious  that  it 
did  not  belong  to  reality  at  all,  there  was  a  great 
ch§,teau,  not  a  ruin — at  least,  not  a  tumbled  ruin, 
though  time-beaten  and  gray — but  a  good  complete 
ch§,teau,  and  across  its  mossy  lintel  a  stained  and 
battered  wooden  sign  with  the  legend,  "A  Louer'' — 
that  is,  "To  Let." 

I  stopped  the  car.  This,  I  said,  was  our  oppor- 
tunity. Nothing  could  be  better  than  that  ancient 
and  lofty  perch  overlooking  the  valley  of  the  Rhone. 
The  "To  Let"  sign  had  been  there  certainly  a  hun- 
dred years,  so  the  price  would  be  reasonable.  We 
could  get  it  for  a  song;  we  would  inherit  its  tradi- 
tions, its  secret  passages,  its  donjons,  its  ghosts,  its 
— I  paused  a  moment,  expecting  enthusiasm,  even 
eagerness,  on  the  part  of  the  family.  Strange  as  it 
may  seem,  there  wasn't  a  particle  of  either.  I  went 
over  those  things  again,  and  added  new  and  fasci- 
nating attractions.  I  said  we  would  adopt  the  coat 
of  arms  of  that  old  family,  hyphenate  its  name  with 
ours,  and  so  in  that  cheap  and  easy  fashion  achieve 
a  nobihty  which  the  original  owner  had  probably 
shed  blood  to  attain. 

It  was  no  use.    The  family  looked  up  the  hill  with 


WAYSIDE  ADVENTURES  71 

an  interest  that  was  almost  clammy.  Narcissa 
asked,  "How  would  you  get  the  car  up  there?"  The 
Joy  said,  "It  would  be  a  good  place  for  bad  dreams." 
The  head  of  the  expedition  remarked,  as  if  dismissing 
the  most  trivial  item  of  the  journey,  that  we'd  better 
be  going  on  or  we  should  be  late  getting  into  Valence. 
So,  after  dreaming  all  my  life  of  living  in  a  castle,  I 
had  to  give  it  up  in  that  brief,  incidental  way. 
6 


Chapter  XII 

THE  LOST  NAPOLEON 

IVfOW,  it  is  just  here  that  we  reach  the  special  reason 
^  ^  which  had  kept  us  where  we  had  a  clear  view  of 
the  eastward  mountains,  and  particularly  to  the 
westward  bank  of  the  Rhone,  where  there  was  sup- 
posed to  be  a  certain  tiny  village,  one  Beauchastel — 
a  village  set  down  on  none  of  our  maps,  yet  which 
was  to  serve  as  an  important  identifying  mark.  The 
reason  had  its  beginning  exactly  twenty-two  years 
before;  that  is  to  say,  in  September,  1891.  Mark 
Twain  was  in  Europe  that  year,  seeking  health  and 
literary  material,  and  toward  the  end  of  the  summer 
— he  was  then  at  Ouchy,  Switzerland — ^he  decided 
to  make  a  floating  trip  down  the  river  Rhone.  He 
foimd  he  could  start  from  Lake  Bourget  in  France, 
and,  by  paddling  through  a  canal,  reach  the  strong 
Rhone  current,  which  would  carry  him  seaward. 
Joseph  Very,  his  favorite  guide  (mentioned  in  A 
Tramp  Abroad),  went  over  to  Lake  Bourget  and 
bought  a  safe,  flat-bottomed  boat,  retaining  its  former 
owner  as  pilot,  and  with  these  accessories  Mark  Twain 
made  one  of  the  most  peaceful  and  delightful  excur- 
sions of  his  life.  Indeed,  he  enjoyed  it  so  much  and 
so  lazily  that  after  the  first  few  days  he  gave  up 
making  extended  notes  and  surrendered  himself 
entirely  to  the  languorous  fascination  of  drifting  idly 


THE  LOST  NAPOLEON  73 

through  the  dreamland  of  southern  France.  On  the 
whole,  it  was  an  eventless  excursion,  with  one  excep- 
tion— a  startUng  exception,  as  he  believed. 

One  afternoon,  when  they  had  been  drifting  several 
days,  he  sighted  a  little  village  not  far  ahead,  on  the 
west  bank,  an  ancient  "jumble  of  houses,"  with  a 
castle,  one  of  the  many  along  that  shore.  It  looked 
interesting  and  he  suggested  that  they  rest  there  for 
the  night.  Then,  chancing  to  glance  over  his  shoulder 
toward  the  eastward  mountains,  he  received  a  sudden 
surprise — a  "soul-stirring  shock,"  as  he  termed  it 
later.  The  big  blue  eastward  moimtain  was  no 
longer  a  mere  mountain,  but  a  gigantic  portrait  in 
stone  of  one  of  his  heroes.  Eagerly  turning  to  Joseph 
Very  and  pointing  to  the  huge  effigy,  he  asked  him 
to  name  it.  The  courier  said,  "Napoleon."  The 
boatman  also  said,  "Napoleon."  It  seemed  to  them, 
indeed,  almost  uncanny,  this  lifelike,  reclining  figure 
of  the  conqueror,  resting  after  battle,  or,  as  Mark 
Twain  put  it,  "dreaming  of  universal  empire."  They 
discussed  it  in  awed  voices,  as  one  of  the  natural 
wonders  of  the  world,  which  perhaps  they  had  been 
the  first  to  discover.  They  landed  at  the  village, 
Beauchastel,  and  next  morning  Mark  Twain,  up 
early,  watched  the  sun  rise  from  behind  the  great 
stone  face  of  his  discovery.  He  made  a  pencil  sketch 
in  his  notebook,  and  recorded  the  fact  that  the 
figure  was  to  be  seen  from  Beauchastel.  That  morn- 
ing, drifting  farther  down  the  Rhone,  they  watched 
it  until  the  human  outlines  changed. 

Mark  Twain's  Rhone  trip  was  continued  as  far 
as  Aries,  where  the  current  slackened.     He  said  that 


74  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

some  one  wotdd  have  to  row  if  they  went  on,  which 
wotild  mean  work,  and  that  he  was  averse  to  work, 
even  in  another  person.  He  gave  the  boat  to  its 
former  owner,  took  Joseph,  and  rejoined  the  family 
in  Switzerland. 

Events  thronged  into  Mark  Twain's  life:  gay 
winters,  summers  of  travel,  heavy  literary  work, 
business  cares  and  failures,  a  trip  around  the  world, 
bereavement.  Amid  such  a  tumult  the  brief  and 
quiet  Rhone  trip  was  seldom  even  remembered. 

But  ten  or  eleven  years  later,  when  he  had  returned 
to  America  and  was  surrounded  by  quieter  things, 
he  happened  to  remember  the  majestic  figure  of  the 
first  Napoleon  discovered  that  September  day  while 
drifting  down  the  Rhone.  He  recalled  no  more  than 
that.  His  memory  was  always  capricious — ^he  had 
even  forgotten  that  he  made  a  sketch  of  the  figure, 
with  notes  identifying  the  locality.  He  could  picture 
clearly  enough  the  incident,  the  phenomenon,  the 
surroundings,  but  the  name  of  the  village  had  escaped 
him,  and  he  located  it  too  far  down,  between  Aries 
and  Avignon. 

All  his  old  enthusiasm  returned  now.  He  declared 
if  the  presence  of  this  great  natural  wonder  was  made 
known  to  the  world,  tourists  would  flock  to  the 
spot,  hotels  would  spring  up  there — all  other  natural 
curiosities  would  fall  below  it  in  rank.  His  listeners 
caught  his  enthusiasm.  Theodore  Stanton,  the  jour- 
naHst,  declared  he  would  seek  and  find  the  "Lost 
Napoleon,"  as  Mark  Twain  now  called  it,  because 
he  was  unable  to  identify  the  exact  spot.  He 
assured  Stanton  that  it  would  be  perfectly  easy  to 


THE  LOST  NAPOLEON  7S 

find,  as  he  could  take  a  steamer  from  Aries  to  Avignon, 
and  by  keeping  watch  he  could  not  miss  it.  Stanton 
returned  to  Europe  and  began  the  search.  I  am  not 
sure  that  he  undertook  the  trip  himself,  but  he  made 
dih'gent  inquiries  of  Rhone  travelers  and  steamer 
captains,  and  a  lengthy  correspondence  passed  between 
him  and  Mark  Twain  on  the  subject. 

No  one  had  seen  the  "Lost  Napoleon."  Travelers 
passing  between  Avignon  and  Aries  kept  steady  watch 
on  the  east  range,  but  the  apparition  did  not  appear. 
Mark  Twain  eventually  wrote  an  article,  intending 
to  publish  it,  in  the  hope  that  some  one  would  report 
the  mislaid  emperor.  However,  he  did  not  print 
the  sketch,  which  was  fortimate  enough,  for  with  its 
misleading  directions  it  would  have  made  him  impop- 
ular  with  disappointed  travelers.  The  locality  of 
his  great  discovery  was  still  a  mystery  when  Mark 
Twain  died. 

So  it  came  about  that  our  special  reason  for  fol- 
lowing the  west  bank  of  the  Rhone — the  Beauchastel 
side,  in  plain  view  of  the  eastward  mountains — was  to 
find  the  "Lost  Napoleon."  An  easy  matter,  it  seemed 
in  prospect,  for  we  had  what  the  others  had  lacked 
— that  is  to  say,  exact  information  as  to  its  locality 
— the  notes,  made  twenty-two  years  before  by  Mark 
Twain  himself' — the  pencil  sketch,  and  memoranda 
stating  that  the  vision  was  to  be  seen  opposite  the 
village  of  Beauchastel. 

But  now  there  developed  what  seemed  to  be 
another  mystery.     Not  only  our  maps  and  oiir  red- 

'  At  Mark  Twain's  death  his  various  literary  effects  passed  into  the 
hands  of  his  biographer,  the  present  writer. 


76  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

book,  but  patient  inquiry  as  well,  failed  to  reveal 
any  village  or  castle  by  the  name  of  Beauchastel.  It 
was  a  fine,  tomantic  title,  and  we  began  to  wonder 
if  it  might  not  be  a  combination  of  half -caught  syl- 
lables, remembered  at  the  moment  of  making  the 
notes,  and  converted  by  Mark  Twain's  imagination 
into  this  happy  sequence  of  sounds. 

So  we  must  hunt  and  keep  the  inquiries  going. 
We  had  begun  the  himt  as  soon  as  we  left  Avignon, 
and  the  inquiries  when  there  was  opportimity.  Then 
presently  the  plot  thickened.  The  line  of  those  east- 
ward moimtains  began  to  assume  many  curious 
shapes.  Something  in  their  formation  was  imlike 
other  moimtains,  and  soon  it  became  not  difficult 
to  imagine  a  face  almost  anywhere.  Then  at  one 
point  appeared  a  real  face,  no  question  this  time  as 
to  the  features,  only  it  was  not  enough  like  the  face 
of  the  sketch  to  make  identification  sure.  We  dis- 
cussed it  anxiously  and  with  some  energy,  and  watched 
it  a  long  time,  thinking  possibly  it  would  gradually 
melt  into  the  right  shape,  and  that  Beauchastel  or 
some  similarly  soimding  village  would  develop  along 
the  river  bank. 

But  the  likeness  did  not  improve,  and,  while  there 
were  plenty  of  villages,  there  was  none  with  a  name 
the  soimd  of  which  even  suggested  Beauchastel. 
Altogether  we  discovered  as  many  as  five  faces  that 
day,  and  became  rather  hysterical  at  last,  and  called 
them  otir  collection  of  lost  Napoleons,  though  among 
them  was  not  one  of  which  we  could  say  with  con- 
viction, "Behold,  the  Lost  Napoleon!"  This  brought 
us  to  Bagnols,  and  we  had  a  fear  now  that  we  were 


THE  LOST  NAPOLEON  ^^ 

past  the  viewpoint — that  somehow  our  search,  or 
our  imagination,  had  been  in  vain. 

But  then  came  the  great  day.  Up  and  up  the 
Rhone,  interested  in  so  many  things  that  at  times 
we  half  forgot  to  watch  the  eastward  hills,  passing 
village  after  village,  castle  after  castle,  but  never 
the  "jumble  of  houses"  and  the  castle  that  com- 
manded the  vision  of  the  great  chief  lying  asleep 
along  the  eastern  horizon. 

I  have  not  mentioned,  I  think,  that  at  the  begin- 
ning of  most  French  villages  there  is  a  signboard, 
the  advertisement  of  a  firm  of  auto-stockists,  with 
the  name  of  the  place,  and  the  polite  request  to 
"Ralentir'' — that  is,  to  "go  slow."  At  the  other 
end  of  the  village  is  another  such  a  sign,  and  on  the 
reverse  you  read,  as  you  pass  out,  "Merci" — which 
is  to  say,  "Thanks,"  for  going  slowly;  so  which- 
ever way  you  come  you  get  information,  advice,  and 
politeness  from  these  boards,  a  feature  truly  French. 

Well,  it  was  a  little  way  above  the  chateau  which 
I  did  not  rent,  and  we  were .  driving  along  slowly, 
thinking  of  nothing  at  all,  entering  an  unimportant- 
looking  place,  when  Narcissa,  who  always  sees  every- 
thing, suddenly  uttered  the  magical  word  "Beau- 
chastel!" 

It  was  like  an  electric  shock — the  soul-stirring 
shock  which  Mark  Twain  had  received  at  the  instant 
of  his  great  discovery.  Beauchastel!  Not  a  fig- 
ment, then,  but  a  reality — the  veritable  jumble  of 
houses  we  had  been  seeking,  and  had  well-nigh  given 
up  as  a  myth.  Just  there  the  houses  interfered  with 
our  view,  but  a  hundred  yards  farther  along  a  vista 


78  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

opened  to  the  horizon,  and  there  at  last,  in  all  its 
mightiness  and  dignity  and  grandeur,  lay  the  Lost 
Napoleon!  It  is  not  likely  that  any  other  natural 
figure  in  stone  ever  gave  two  such  sudden  and  splendid 
thrills  of  triumph,  first,  to  its  discoverer,  and,  twenty- 
two  years  later,  almost  to  the  day,  to  those  who  had 
discovered  it  again.  There  was  no  question  this 
time.  The  colossal  sleeping  figure  in  its  supreme 
repose  confuted  every  doubt,  resting  where  it  had 
rested  for  a  million  years,  and  would  still  rest  for  a 
million  more. 

At  first  we  spoke  our  joy  eagerly,  then  fell  into 
silence,  looking  and  looking,  loath  to  go,  for  fear  it 
would  change.  At  every  opening  we  halted  to  look 
again,  and  always  with  gratification,  for  it  did  not 
change,  or  so  gradually  that  for  miles  it  traveled  with 
us,  and  still  at  evening,  when  we  were  nearing  Valence, 
there  remained  a  great  stone  face  on  the  horizon. 


Chapter  XIII 

THE  HOUSE  OF  HEADS 

T  OUGHT  to  say,  I  suppose,  that  we  were  no  longer 
•^  in  Provence.  Even  at  Avignon  we  were  in  Venais- 
sin,  according  to  present  geography,  and  when  we 
crossed  the  Rhone  we  passed  into  Languedoc.  Now, 
at  Valence,  we  were  in  Dauphin^,  of  which  Valence 
is  the  "chief -lieu,"  meaning,  I  take  it,  the  official 
headquarters.  I  do  not  think  these  are  the  old  divi- 
sions at  all,  and  in  any  case  it  all  has  been  "the 
Midi,"  which  to  us  is  the  Provence,  the  vineland, 
songland,  and  storyland  of  a  nation  where  vine  and 
song  and  story  flourish  everywhere  so  lavishly  that 
strangers  come,  never  to  bring,  but  only  to  carry 
away. 

At  Valence,  however,  romance  hesitates  on  the 
outskirts.  The  light  of  other  days  grows  dim  in  its 
newer  electric  glow.  Old  castles  surmount  the  hill- 
tops, but  one  needs  a  field  glass  to  see  them.  The 
city  itself  is  modem  and  busy,  prosperous  in  its 
manufacture  of  iron,  silk,  macaroni,  and  certain  very 
good  liquors. 

I  beUeve  the  chief  attraction  of  Valence  is  the 
"House  of  the  Heads."  Our  guidebook  has  a  pic- 
ture which  shows  Napoleon  Bonaparte  standing 
at  the  entrance,  making  his  adieus  to  Montalivet, 
who,  in  a  later  day,  was  to  become  his  minister. 


8o  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Napoleon  had  completed  his  military  education  in 
the  artillery  school  of  Valence,  and  at  the  moment 
was  setting  out  to  fulfill  his  dream  of  conquest.  It 
is  rather  curious,  when  you  think  of  it,  that  the  great 
natural  stone  portrait  already  described  should  be 
such  a  Httle  distance  away. 

To  go  back  to  the  House  of  the  Heads:  Our  book 
made  only  the  briefest  mention  of  its  construction, 
and  told  nothing  at  all  of  its  traditions.  We  stood 
in  front  of  it,  gazing  in  the  dim  evening  light  at  the 
crumbling  carved  faces  of  its  facade,  peering  through 
into  its  ancient  court  where  there  are  now  apartments 
to  let,  wondering  as  to  its  history.  One  goes  raking 
about  in  the  dusty  places  of  his  memory  at  such 
moments;  returning  suddenly  from  an  excursion 
of  that  sort,  I  said  I  recalled  the  story  of  a  house  of 
carved  heads — something  I  had  heard,  or  read,  long 
ago — and  that  this  must  be  the  identical  house  con- 
cerning which  the  story  had  been  told. 

It  was  like  this :  There  was  a  wealthy  old  bachelor 
of  ancient  days  who  had  spent  his  life  in  collecting 
rare  treasures  of  art;  pictures,  tapestries,  choice 
metal-work,  arms — everything  that  was  beautiful 
and  rare;  his  home  was  a  storehouse  of  priceless 
things.  He  lived  among  them,  attended  only  by  a 
single  servant — the  old  woman  who  had  been  his 
nurse — a  plain,  masculine  creature,  large  of  frame, 
still  strong  and  brawny,  stout  of  heart  and  of  stead- 
fast loyalty.  When  the  master  was  away  gathering 
new  treasures  she  slept  in  the  room  where  the  arms 
were  kept,  with  a  short,  sharp,  two-edged  museum 
piece  by  her  couch,  and  without  fear. 


> 


M^ 


I 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HEADS  8i 

One  morning  he  told  her  of  a  journey  he  was  about 
to  take,  and  said :  "I  hesitate  to  leave  you  here  alone. 
You  are  no  longer  young." 

But  she  answered:  "Only  by  the  count  of  years, 
not  by  the  measure  of  strength  or  vigilance.  I  am 
not  afraid." 

So  he  left  her,  to  return  on  the  third  day.  But 
on  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  when  the  old  serv- 
ant went  down  to  the  lower  basement  for  fuel — 
silently,  in  her  softly  slippered  feet — she  heard  low 
voices  at  a  small  window  that  opened  to  the  court. 
She  crept  over  to  it  and  found  that  a  portion  of  the 
sash  had  been  removed;  Hstening,  she  learned  that 
a  group  of  men  outside  in  the  dusk  were  planning 
to  enter  and  rob  the  house.  They  were  to  wait  tmtil 
she  was  asleep,  then  creep  in  through  the  window, 
make  their  way  upstairs,  kill  her,  and  carry  oflE  the 
treasures. 

It  seemed  a  good  plan,  but  as  the  old  servant 
listened  she  formed  a  better  one.  She  crept  back 
upstairs,  not  to  lock  herself  in  and  stand  a  siege, 
but  to  get  her  weapon,  the  short,  heavy  sword  with 
its  two  razor  edges.  Then  she  came  back  and  sat 
down  to  wait.  While  she  was  waiting  she  entertained 
herself  by  listening  to  their  plans  and  taking  a  little 
quiet  muscle  exercise.  By  and  by  she  heard  them 
say  that  the  old  hag  would  surely  be  asleep  by  this 
time.     The  "old  hag"  smiled  grimly  and  got  ready. 

A  man  put  his  head  in.  It  was  pitch  dark  inside, 
but  just  enough  light  came  in  from  the  stars  for  her 
to  see  where  to  strike.  When  half  his  body  was 
through  she  made  a  clean  slicing  swing  of  the  heavy 


82  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

sword  and  the  robber's  head  dropped  on  a  little 
feather  bed  which  she  had  thoughtfully  provided. 
The  old  woman  seized  the  shoulders  and  firmly  drew 
the  rest  of  the  man  inside.  Another  head  came  in, 
slowly,  the  shoulders  following.  With  another  swing 
of  the  sword  they  had  parted  company,  and  the  grim 
avenging  hands  were  silently  dragging  in  the  rem- 
nant. Another  head  and  shoulders  followed,  another, 
and  another,  imtil  six  heads  and  bodies  were  stacked 
about  the  executioner  and  there  was  blood  enough 
to  swim  in.  The  seventh  robber  did  not  appear 
immediately;  something  about  the  silence  within 
made  him  reluctant.  He  was  suspicious,  he  did  not 
know  of  what.  He  put  his  head  to  the  opening  and 
whispered,  asking  if  everything  was  all  right.  The 
old  woman  was  no  longer  calm.  The  violent  exercise 
and  intense  interest  in  her  occupation  had  imnerved 
her.  She  was  afraid  she  could  not  control  her  voice 
to  answer,  and  that  he  would  get  away.  She  made 
a  supreme  effort  and  whispered,  "Yes,  all  right." 
So  he  put  in  his  head — very  slowly — ^hesitated,  and 
started  to  withdraw.  The  old  woman,  however,  did 
not  hesitate.  She  seized  him  by  the  hair,  brought 
the  sword  down  with  a  fierce  one-hand  swing,  and 
the  treasures  of  this  world  troubled  him  no  more. 

Then  the  old  servant  went  crazy.  Returning 
next  morning,  her  master  foimd  her  covered  with 
blood,  brandishing  her  sword,  and  repeating  over 
and  over,  "Seven  heads,  and  all  mine,"  and  at 
sight  of  him  lost  consciousness.  She  recovered  far 
enough  to  tell  her  story,  then,  presently,  died.  But 
in  her  honor  the  master  rebuilt  the  front  of  his  dwell- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  HEADS  83 

ing  and  had  carved  upon  it  the  heads  of  the  men 
she  had  so  promptly  and  justly  punished. 

Now,  I  said,  this  must  be  the  very  house,  and  we 
regarded  it  with  awe  and  tried  to  locate  the  little 
cellar  window  where  the  execution  had  taken  place. 
It  was  well  enough  in  the  evening  dimness,  but  in 
the  morning  when  we  went  around  there  again  I 
privately  began  to  have  doubts  as  to  the  legend's 
authenticity,  at  least  so  far  as  this  particular  house 
was  concerned.  The  heads,  by  daylight,  did  not 
look  like  the  heads  of  house  breakers — not  any 
house  breakers  of  my  acquaintance — and  I  later 
consulted  a  guidebook  which  attached  to  them  the 
names  of  Homer,  Hippocrates,  Aristotle,  Pythagoras, 
etc.,  and  I  don't  think  those  were  the  names  of  the 
parties  concerned  in  this  particular  affair.  It's  very 
hard  to  give  up  a  good  and  otherwise  perfectly  fitting 
legend,  but  one  must  either  do  that  or  change  the 
guidebook.  Ah,  well,  it  isn't  the  first  sacrifice  I've 
had  to  make  for  the  sake  of  history. 

Valence  has  been  always  a  place  of  culture  and 
educational  activity.  It  was  capital  of  Segalauni 
before  the  Romans  came,  and  there  was  a  celebrated 
school  there,  even  then.  This  information  also 
came  from  the  guidebook,  and  it  surprised  me.  It 
was  the  first  time  I  had  heard  that  the  Segalaunians 
had  a  school  prior  to  the  Roman  conquest.  It  was 
also  the  first  time  I  had  heard  of  the  Segalaunians. 
I  thought  they  were  all  Gauls  and  Goths  and  Vandals 
up  that  way,  and  that  their  education  consisted  in 
learning  how  to  throw  a  spear  convincingly,  or  to  di- 
vert one  with  a  rawhide  buckler.     Now  I  discov- 


84  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

ered  they  had  a  college  before  the  Romans  conquered 
them.  One  can  hardly  blame  them  for  descending 
upon  those  Romans  later,  with  fire  and  sword.  Valence 
shared  the  usual  fate.  It  was  ravished  by  the  so- 
called  barbarians,  and  later  hacked  to  pieces  by 
Christian  kings.  To-day  again  it  is  a  fair  city,  with 
parks,  wide  boulevards,  and  imposing  monuments. 


Chapter  XIV 

INTO  THE  HILLS 

'T'URNING  eastward  from  Valence,  we  headed 
"*■  directly  for  the  mountains  and  entered  a  land 
with  all  the  wealth  of  increase  we  had  found  in  Pro- 
vence, and  with  even  more  of  picturesqueness.  The 
road  was  still  perfect — ^hard  and  straight,  with  an 
upward  incline,  but  with  a  grade  so  gradual  and 
perfect  as  to  be  barely  noticeable.  Indeed,  there 
were  times  when  we  seemed  actually  to  be  descend- 
ing, even  when  the  evidence  of  gravity  told  us  that 
we  were  climbing;  that  is  to  say,  we  met  water 
coming  toward  us — water  flowing  by  the  roadside 
— and  more  than  once  Narcissa  and  I  agreed  that 
the  said  water  was  nmning  uphill,  which  was  not 
likely — not  in  France.  Of  course,  in  England,  where 
they  turn  to  the  left,  it  might  be  expected.  The 
village  did  not  seem  quite  like  those  along  the  Rhone. 
The  streets  were  as  narrow,  the  people  as  mildly 
interested  in  us,  but,  on  the  whole,  we  thought  the 
general  aspect  was  less  ancient,  possibly  less  clean. 

But  they  were  interesting.  Once  we  saw  a  man 
beating  a  dnrni,  stopping  on  every  comer  to  collect 
a  Httle  crowd  and  read  some  sort  of  proclamation, 
and  once  by  the  roadside  we  met  a  little  negro  child 
in  a  straw  hat  and  a  bright  dress,  a  very  bit  of  the 
American  South.    Everywhere  were  pretty  gardens, 


86  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

along  the  walls  gay  flowers,  and  always  the  valleys 
were  rich  in  orchard  and  vineyard,  plumed  with  tall 
poplars,  divided  by  bright  rivers,  and  glorified  with 
hazy  September  sunlight. 

We  grew  friendly  with  the  mountains  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon,  then  intimate.  They  sprang  up 
before  us  and  behind  us;  just  across  the  valleys  they 
towered  into  the  sky.  Indeed,  we  suddenly  had  a 
most  dramatic  proof  that  we  were  cHmbing  one. 
We  had  been  shut  in  by  wooded  roads  and  sheltered 
farmsteads  for  an  hour  or  two  when  we  came  out 
again  into  the  open  valley,  with  the  river  flowing 
through.  But  we  were  no  longer  in  the  valley! 
Surprise  of  surprises!  we  were  on  a  narrow,  lofty 
road  hundreds  of  feet  above  it,  skirting  the  mountain- 
side! It  seemed  incredible  that  our  gradual,  almost 
imperceptible,  ascent  had  brought  us  to  that  high 
perch,  overlooking  this  marvelous  Vale  of  Cashmere. 
Everyone  has  two  countries,  it  is  said;  his  own  and 
France.  One  could  imderstand  that  saying  here, 
and  why  the  French  are  not  an  emigrating  race. 
We  stopped  to  gaze  our  fill,  and  as  we  went  along, 
the  scenery  attracted  my  attention  so  much  that 
more  than  once  I  nearly  drove  off  into  it.  We  were 
so  engrossed  by  the  pictiire  that  we  took  the  wrong 
road  and  went  at  least  ten  miles  out  of  our  way  to 
get  to  Grenoble.  But  it  did  not  matter;  we  saw 
startlingly  steep  mountainsides  that  otherwise  we 
might  not  have  seen,  and  dashing  streams,  and  at 
the  end  we  had  a  wild  and  glorious  coast  of  five  or  six 
miles  from  our  moimtain  fastness  down  into  the 
valley  of  the  Is^re,  a  regular  toboggan  streak,  both 


INTO  THE  HILLS  87 

horns  going,  nerves  taut,  teeth  set,  probable  disaster 
waiting  at  every  turn.  We  had  never  done  such  a 
thing  before,  and  promised  ourselves  not  to  do  it 
again.  One  such  thrill  was  worth  while,  perhaps, 
but  the  ordinary  lifetime  might  not  outlast  another. 

Down  in  that  evening  valley  we  were  in  a  wonder- 
land. Granite  walls  rose  perpendicularly  on  our  left; 
cottages  nestled  in  gardens  at  our  right — ^bloom, 
foliage,  fragrance,  the  flowing  Is^re.  Surely  this 
was  the  happy  valley,  the  land  of  peace  and  plenty, 
shut  in  by  these  lofty  heights  from  all  the  troubling 
of  the  world.  Even  the  towers  and  spires  of  a  city 
that  presently  began  to  rise  ahead  of  us  did  not  dis- 
turb us.  In  the  evening  light  they  were  not  real, 
and  when  we  had  entered  the  gates  of  ancient  Gratian- 
opolis,  and  crossed  the  Is^re  by  one  of  its  several 
bridges,  it  seemed  that  this  modem  Grenoble  was 
not  quite  a  city  of  the  eager  world. 

The  hotel  we  selected  from  the  red-book  was  on 
the  outskirts,  and  we  had  to  draw  pretty  heavily  on 
our  French  to  find  it;  but  it  was  worth  while,  for  it 
was  set  in  a  wide  garden,  and  from  every  window 
commanded  the  Alps.  We  realized  now  that  they 
were  the  Alps,  the  Alps  of  the  Savoy,  their  high  green 
slopes  so  near  that  we  could  hear  the  tinkle  of  the 
goat  bells. 

We  did  not  take  the  long  drive  through  the  "impos- 
sibly beautiful"  valleys  of  Grenoble  which  we  had 
planned  for  next  morning.  When  we  arose  the  air 
was  no  longer  full  of  stillness  and  sunlight.  In  fact, 
it  was  beginning  to  rain.     So  we  stayed  in,   and 

by  and  by  for  luncheon  had  all  the  good  French  things, 
7 


88  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

ending  with  fresh  strawberries,  great  bowls  of  them 
— ^in  September — ^and  apparently  no  novelty  in  this 
happy  valley  of  the  Is^re.  All  the  afternoon,  too, 
it  rained,  and  some  noisy  French  youngsters  raced 
up  and  down  the  lower  rooms  and  haUs,  producing 
a  homelike  atmosphere,  while  we  gathered  about 
the  tables  to  study  the  French  papers  and  magazines. 
It  was  among  the  advertisements  that  I  made 
some  discoveries  about  French  automobiles.  They 
are  more  expensive  than  ours,  in  proportion  to 
the  horsepower,  the  latter  being  usually  low. 
About  twelve  to  fifteen  horsepower  seems  to  be  the 
strength  of  the  ordinary  five-passenger  machine. 
Our  own  thirty-horsepower  engine,  which  we  thought 
rather  light  at  home,  is  a  giant  by  comparison. 
Heavy  engines  are  not  needed  in  France.  The 
smooth  roads  and  perfectly  graded  hills  require  not 
half  the  power  that  we  must  expend  on  some  of  our 
rough,  tough,  rocky,  and  steep  highways.  Again, 
these  lighter  engines  and  cars  take  less  gasoUne, 
certainly,  and  that  is  a  big  item,  where  gasoline 
costs  at  least  loo  per  cent  more  than  in  America. 
I  suppose  the  lightest  weight  car  consistent  with 
strength  and  comfort  would  be  the  thing  to  take  to 
Europe.  There  would  be  a  saving  in  the  gasoline 
bill ;  and  then  the  customs  deposit,  which  is  figured  on 
the  weight,  would  not  be  so  likely  to  cripple  the 
owner's  bank  account. 


Chapter  XV 

UP  THE  ISERE 

COMETIME  in  the  night  the  rain  ceased,  and  by 
^  morning  Nature  had  prepared  a  surprise  for  us. 
The  air  was  crystal  clear,  and  towering  into  the  sky 
were  peaks  no  longer  blue  or  green  or  gray,  but  white 
with  drifted  snow!  We  were  in  warm,  mellow 
September  down  in  our  valley,  but  just  up  there — 
such  a  little  way  it  seemed — were  the  drifts  of  winter. 
With  our  glass  we  could  bring  them  almost  within 
snowballing  distance.  Feathery  clouds  drifted  among 
the  peaks,  the  sun  shooting  through.  It  was  all  new 
to  us,  and  startling.  These  really  were  the  Alps; 
there  was  no  further  question. 

"Few  French  cities  have  a  finer  location  than 
Grenoble,"  says  the  guidebook,  and  if  I  also  have 
not  conveyed  this  impression  I  have  meant  to  do  so. 
Not  many  cities  in  the  world,  I  imagine,  are  more 
picturesquely  located.  It  is  also  a  large  city,  with 
a  population  of  more  than  seventy-five  thousand — a 
city  of  culture,  and  it  has  been  important  since  the 
beginning  of  recorded  history.  Gratian  was  its 
patron  Roman  emperor,  and  the  na.tne  Gratianopolis, 
assumed  in  his  honor,  has  become  the  Grenoble  of 
to-day.  Gratian  lived  back  in  the  fourth  century 
and  was  a  capable  sort  of  an  emperor,  but  he  had 
one  weak  point.    He  liked  to  array  himself  in  out- 


90  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

landish  garb  and  show  off.  It  is  a  weakness  common 
to  many  persons,  and  seems  harmless  enough,  but 
it  was  not  a  healthy  thing  for  Gratian,  who  did  it 
once  too  often.  He  came  out  one  day  habited  like 
a  Scythian  warrior  and  capered  up  and  down  in  front 
of  his  army.  He  expected  admiration,  and  probably 
the  title  of  Scythianus,  or  something.  But  the 
unexpected  happened.  The  army  jeered  at  his 
antics,  and  eventually  assassinated  him.  Scythian 
costumes  for  emperors  are  still  out  of  style. 

We  may  pass  over  the  riot  and  ruin  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  All  these  towns  were  alike  in  that  respect. 
The  story  of  one,  with  slight  alterations,  fits  them 
all.  Grenoble  was  the  first  town  to  open  its  gates 
to  Napoleon,  on  his  return  from  Elba,  in  1815,  which 
gives  it  a  kind  of  distinction  in  more  recent  times. 
Another  individual  feature  is  its  floods.  The  Is^re 
occasionally  fills  its  beautiful  valley,  and  fifteen 
times  during  the  past  three  centuries  Grenoble  has 
been  almost  swept  away.  There  has  been  no  flood 
for  a  long  period  now,  and  another  is  about  due. 
Prudent  citizens  of  Grenoble  keep  a  boat  tied  in  the 
back  yard  instead  of  a  dog. 

We  did  not  linger  in  Grenoble.  The  tomb  of 
Bayard — sans  peur,  sans  reproche — ^is  there,  in  the 
church  of  St.  Andre;  but  we  did  not  learn  of  this 
until  later.  The  great  sight  at  Grenoble  is  its  envi- 
ronment— the  superlative  beauty  of  its  approaches, 
and  its  setting — all  of  which  we  had  seen  in  the  glory 
of  a  September  afternoon. 

There  were  two  roads  to  Chamb6ry,  one  by  the 
Is^re,  and  another  through  the  moimtains  by  way  of 


UP  THE  IS£RE  91 

Chartreuse  which,  had  its  attractions.  I  always 
wanted  to  get  some  of  the  ancient  nectar  at  its  foun- 
tainhead,  and  the  road  was  put  down  as  "pictur- 
esque." But  the  rains  had  made  the  hills  slippery; 
a  skidding  automobile  and  old  Chartreuse  in  two 
colors  did  not  seem  a  safe  combination  for  a  family 
car.  So  we  took  the  river  route,  and  I  am  glad  now, 
for  it  began  raining  soon  after  we  started,  and  we 
might  not  have  found  any  comfortable  ruined  castle 
to  shelter  us  if  we  had  taken  to  the  woods  and  hills. 
As  it  was,  we  drove  into  a  great  arched  entrance, 
where  we  were  safe  and  dry,  and  quite  indifferent 
as  to  what  happened  next.  We  explored  the  place, 
and  were  rather  puzzled.  It  was  unlike  other  castles 
we  have  seen.  Perhaps  it  had  not  been  a  castle  at 
all,  but  an  immense  granary,  or  brewery,  or  an  an- 
cient fortress.  In  any  case,  it  was  old  and  massive, 
and  its  high  main  arch  afforded  us  a  fine  protection. 

The  shower  passed,  the  sun  came  out,  and  sent 
us  on  our  way.  The  road  was  wet,  but  hard,  and 
not  steep.  It  was  a  neighborly  road,  ciuiously 
intimate  with  the  wayside  life,  its  domestic  geography 
and  economies;  there  were  places  where  we  seemed 
to  be  actually  in  front  dooryards. 

The  weather  was  not  settled;  now  and  then  there 
came  a  sprinkle,  but  with  our  top  up  we  did  not 
mind.  It  being  rather  wet  for  picnicking,  we  decided 
that  we  would  lunch  at  some  wayside  inn.  None 
appeared,  however,  and  when  we  came  to  think  about 
it,  we  could  not  remember  having  anywhere  passed 
such  an  inn.  There  were  plenty  of  caf6s  where  one 
could  obtain  wines  and  other  beverages,  but  no  food. 


92  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

In  England  and  New  England  there  are  plenty  of 
hostelries  along  the  main  roads,  but  evidently  not 
in  France.  One  must  depend  on  the  towns.  So  we 
stopped  at  Challes-les-Eaux,  a  little  way  out  of  Cham- 
b4ry,  a  pretty  place,  where  we  might  have  stayed 
longer  if  the  September  days  had  not  been  getting  few. 

Later,  at  Chamb6ry,  we  visited  the  thirteenth- 
century  chateau  of  the  Due  de  Savoy,  which  has  been 
rebuilt,  and  climbed  the  great  square  tower  which 
is  about  all  that  is  left  of  the  original  structure,  a 
grand  place  in  its  time.  We  also  went  into  the  gothic 
chapel  to  see  some  handsomely  carved  wainscoting, 
with  a  ceiling  to  match.  We  were  admiring  it  when 
the  woman  who  was  conducting  us  explained  by 
signs  and  a  combination  of  languages  that,  while  the 
wainscoting  was  carved,  the  ceiling  was  only  painted, 
in  imitation.  It  was  certainly  marvelous  if  true, 
and  she  looked  like  an  honest  woman.  But  I  don't 
know — I  wanted  to  get  up  there  and  feel  it. 

She  was,  at  any  rate,  a  considerate  woman.  When 
I  told  her  in  the  beginning  that  we  had  come  to  see 
the  Duke  of  Savoy's  old  hat,  meaning  his  old  castle, 
she  hardly  smiled,  though  Narcissa  went  into  hys- 
terics. It  was  nothing — even  a  Frenchman  might 
say  "chapeau''  when  he  meant  "chdteau,"  and, 
furthermore — but  let  it  go — it  isn't  important  enough 
to  dwell  upon.     Anything  will  divert  the  young. 

Speaking  of  hats,  I  have  not  mentioned,  I  believe, 
the  extra  one  that  we  carried  in  the  car.  It  belonged 
to  the  head  of  the  family  and  when  we  loaded  it 
(the  hat)  at  Marseilles  it  was  a  fresh  and  rather 
fluffy  bit  of  finery.    There  did  not  seem  to  be  any 


UP  THE  IS£RE  93 

good  place  for  it  in  the  heavy  baggage,  shipped  by 
freight  to  Switzerland,  and  decidedly  none  in  the 
service  bags  strapped  to  the  running-board.  Besides, 
its  owner  said  she  might  want  to  wear  it  on  the  way. 
There  was  plenty  of  space  for  an  extra  hat  in  our 
roomy  car,  we  said,  and  there  did  seem  to  be  when 
we  loaded  it  in,  all  neatly  done  up  in  a  trim  package. 
But  it  is  curious  how  things  jostle  about  and  lose 
their  identity.  I  never  seemed  to  be  able  to  remem- 
ber what  was  in  that  particular  package,  and  was 
always  mistaking  it  for  other  things.  When  limcheon 
time  came  I  invariably  seized  it,  expecting  some 
pleasant  surprise,  only  to  untie  an  appetizing,  but 
indigestible,  hat.  The  wrapping  began  to  have  a 
travel-worn  look,  the  package  seemed  to  lose  bulk. 
When  we  lost  the  string,  at  last,  we  found  that  we 
could  tie  it  with  a  much  shorter  one;  when  we  lost 
that,  we  gave  the  paper  a  twist  at  the  ends,  which 
was  seldom  permanent,  especially  when  violently 
disturbed.  Not  a  soul  in  the  car  that  did  not  at  one 
time  or  another,  feeling  something  bunchy,  give  it 
a  kick,  only  to  expose  our  surplus  hat,  which  always 
had  a  helpless,  unhappy  look  that  invited  pity.  No 
concealment  insured  safety.  Once  the  Joy  was  found 
to  have  her  feet  on  it.  At  another  time  the  owner 
herself  was  sitting  on  it.  We  seldom  took  it  in  at 
night,  but  once  when  we  did  we  forgot  it,  and  drove 
back  seven  miles  to  recover.  I  don't  know  what 
finally  became  of  it. 


Chapter  XVI 

INTO   THE  HAUTE-SAVOIE 

TT  is  a  rare  and  beautiful  drive  to  Aix-les-Bains,  and 
*■  it  takes  one  by  Lake  Bourget,  the  shimmering  bit 
of  blue  water  from  which  Mark  Twain  set  out  on  his 
Rhone  trip.  We  got  into  a  street  market  the  moment 
of  our  arrival  in  Aix,  a  solid  swarm  of  dickering 
people.  In  my  excitement  I  let  the  engine  stall,  and 
it  seemed  we  would  never  get  through.  Aix  did  not 
much  interest  us,  and  we  pushed  on  to  Annecy  with 
no  imnecessary  delay,  and  from  Annecy  to  Thones, 
a  comfortable  day's  run,  including,  as  it  did,  a  drive 
about  beautiful  ancient  Annecy,  chief  city  of  the 
Haute-Savoie.  We  might  have  stayed  longer  at 
Annecy,  but  the  weather  had  an  tmsettled  look,  and 
there  came  the  feeling  that  storms  and  winter  were 
gathering  in  the  mountains  and  we  would  better  be 
getting  along  somewhere  else.  Also  a  woman  backed 
her  donkey  cart  into  us  at  Annecy  and  put  another 
dent  in  our  mudguard,  which  was  somehow  dis- 
couraging. As  it  was,  we  saw  the  lake,  said  to  be 
the  most  beautiful  in  France,  though  no  more  beau- 
tiful, I  think,  than  Bourget;  an  ancient  chateau, 
now  transformed  into  barracks;  the  old  prison  built 
out  in  the  river;  the  narrow,  ancient  streets;  and  a 
house  with  a  tablet  that  states  that  Jean- Jacques 


INTO  THE  HAUTE-SAVOIE  95 

Rousseau  lived  there  in  1729,  and  there  developed 
his  taste  for  music. 

The  Haute-Savoie  is  that  billowy  comer  of  far- 
eastern  France  below  Lake  Geneva — a  kind  of  neutral, 
no  man's  territory  hemmed  by  the  huge  heights  of 
Switzerland  and  Italy.  Leaving  Annecy,  we  followed 
a  picturesque  road  through  a  wild,  weird  land,  along 
gorges  and  awesome  brinks,  under  a  somber  sky. 
At  times  we  seemed  to  be  on  the  back  of  the  world; 
at  others  diving  to  its  recesses.  It  was  the  kind  of 
way  that  one  might  take  to  supernatural  regions, 
and  it  was  the  kind  of  evening  to  start. 

Here  and  there  on  the  slopes  were  flocks  and  herds, 
attended  by  grave-faced  women,  who  were  knitting 
as  they  slowly  walked.  They  barely  noticed  us  or 
their  charges.  They  never  s^  down,  but  followed 
along,  knitting,  knitting,  as  though  they  were  pat- 
terning the  fates  of  men.  Sometimes  we  met  or 
passed  a  woman  on  the  road,  always  knitting,  like 
the  others.  It  was  imcanny.  Probably  for  every 
human  being  there  is  somewhere  among  those  dark 
mountains  a  weird  woman,  knitting  the  pattern  of 
his  life.  That  night  at  Thones,  a  forgotten  hamlet, 
lost  there  in  the  Haute-Savoie,  a  storm  broke,  the 
wind  tore  about  our  little  inn,  the  rain  dashed  fear- 
somely,  all  of  which  was  the  work  of  those  knitting 
women,  beyond  doubt. 

But  the  sun  came  up  fresh  and  bright,  and  we  took 
the  road  for  Geneva.  For  a  time  it  would  be  our 
last  day  in  France.  All  the  forenoon  we  were  among 
the  mountain  peaks,  skirting  precipices  that  one  did 
not  care  to  look  over  without  holding  firmly  to  some- 


96  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

thing.     But   there   were   no   steep   grades   and   the 
brinks  were  protected  by  solid  little  walls. 

At  the  bottom  of  a  long  slope  a  soldier  stepped 
out  of  a  box  of  a  house  and  presented  arms.  I  dodged, 
but  his  intent  was  not  sangiiinary.  He  wanted  to 
see  our  papers — we  were  at  the  frontier — so  I  pro- 
duced our  customs  receipts,  called  triptyques,  our 
T.  C.  de  F.  membership  card,  our  car  license,  our 
driving  license,  and  was  feeling  in  my  pocket  for  yet 
other  things  when,  he  protested,  ''Pas  nicessaire, 
pas  nicessaire"  and  handed  all  back  but  the  French 
tripiyque,  which  he  took  to  his  bureau,  where,  with 
two  other  military  attaches,  he  examined,  discussed, 
finally  signed  and  witnessed  it,  and  waved  us  on  our 
way. 

So  we  were  not  passing  the  Swiss  customs  yet,  but 
only  leaving  the  French  outpost.  The  ordeal  of  the 
Swiss  douane  was  still  somewhere  ahead;  we  had 
entered  the  neutral  strip.  We  wished  we  might 
reach  the  Swiss  post  pretty  soon  and  have  the  matter 
over  with.  We  had  visions  of  a  fierce  person  looking 
us  through,  while  he  fired  a  volley  of  French  ques- 
tions, pulled  our  baggage  to  pieces,  and  weighed  the 
car,  only  to  find  that  the  result  did  not  tally  with 
the  figures  on  our  triple-folded  sheet.  I  had  sup- 
plied most  of  those  figures  from  memory,  and  I 
doubted  their  accuracy.  I  had  heard  that  of  all 
coimtries  except  Russia,  Switzerland  was  about  the 
most  particular.  So  we  went  on  and  on  through 
that  lofty  scenery,  expecting  almost  anjrthing  at 
every  turn. 

But   nothing  happened — nothing   except  that  at 


INTO  THE  HAUTE-SAVOIE  97 

one  place  the  engine  seemed  to  be  running  rather 
poorly.  I  thought  at  first  that  there  was  some 
obstruction  in  the  gasoHne  tube,  and  my  impulse 
was  to  light  a  match  and  look  into  the  tank  to  see 
what  it  might  be.  On  second  thought  I  concluded 
to  omit  the  match.  I  remembered  reading  of  a  man 
who  had  done  that,  and  almost  immediately  his 
heirs  had  been  obliged  to  get  a  new  car. 

We  passed  villages,  but  no  douane.  Then  all  at 
once  we  were  in  the  outskirts  of  a  city.  Why,  this 
was  surely  Geneva,  and  as  we  were  driving  leisurely 
along  a  fat  Uttle  man  in  uniform  came  out  and 
lifted  his  hand.  We  stopped.  Here  it  was,  then, 
at  last. 

For  a  moment  I  felt  a  slight  attack  of  weakness, 
not  in  the  heart,  but  about  the  knees.  However,  the 
Kttle  man  seemed  friendly.  He  held  out  his  hand 
and  I  shook  it  cordially.  But  it  was  the  papers  he 
was  after,  our  Swiss  triptyque.  I  said  to  myself, 
"A  minute  more  and  we  probably  shall  be  on  the 
scales,  and  the  next  in  trouble."  But  he  only  said, 
*'Numero  de  moteur.**  I  jerked  open  the  hood, 
scrubbed  off  the  grease,  and  showed  it  to  him.  He 
compared  it,  smiled,  and  handed  back  our  paper. 
Then  he  waved  me  to  a  bureau  across  the  street. 
Now  it  was  coming;  he  had  doubtless  discovered 
something  wrong  at  a  glance. 

There  was  an  efi5cient-looking,  sinister-looking 
person  in  the  office  who  took  the  triptyque,  glanced 
at  it,  and  threw  something  down  before  me.  I 
thought  it  was  a  warrant,  but  it  proved  to  be  a  copy 
of  the  Swiss  law  and  driving  regulations,  with  a  fine 


98  THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

road  map  of  Switzerland,  and  all  information  needed 
by  motorists;  "Price,  2  Frs."  stamped  on  the  cover. 
I  judged  that  I  was  required  to  buy  this,  but  I  should 
have  done  it,  anyway.  It  was  worth  the  money, 
and  I  wished  to  oblige  that  man.  He  accepted  my 
two  francs,  and  I  began  to  feel  better.  Then  he 
made  a  few  entries  in  something,  handed  me  my 
triptyqtie,  said  "Bonjour,  et  bon  voyage,*'  and  I  was 
done. 

I  could  hardly  believe  it.  I  saw  then  what  a  nice 
face  he  had,  while  the  little  fat  man  across  the  street 
was  manifestly  a  lovely  soul.  He  had  demanded 
not  a  thing  but  the  number  of  the  motor.  Not  even 
the  number  of  the  car  had  interested  him.  As  for 
the  weight,  the  bore  of  the  cylinders,  the  ntimber  of 
the  chassis,  and  all  those  other  statistics  said  to  be 
required,  they  were  as  nonexistent  to  him  as  to  me. 
Why,  he  had  not  even  asked  us  to  unstrap  our  bag- 
gage. It  was  with  feelings  akin  to  tenderness  that 
we  waved  him  good-by  and  glided  across  the  imaginary 
line  of  his  frontier  into  Switzerland. 

We  glided  very  leisurely,  however.  "Everybody 
gets  arrested  in  Switzerland" — every  stranger,  that 
is — ^for  breaking  the  speed  laws.  This,  at  least,  was 
our  New  York  information.  So  we  crept  along,  and 
I  kept  my  eye  on  the  speedometer  all  the  way  through 
Geneva,  for  we  were  not  going  to  stop  there  at  pres- 
ent, and  when  we  had  crossed  our  old  friend,  the 
Rhone,  variously  bridged  here,  skirted  the  gay  water- 
front and  were  on  the  shore  road  of  that  loveliest 
of  all  lakes — Lake  Leman,  with  its  blue  water,  its 
snow-capped  moimtains,  its  terraced  vineyards,  we 


INTO  THE  HAUTE-SAVOIE  99 

still  loafed  and  watched  the  gendarmes  to  see  if  they 
were  timing  us,  and  came  almost  to  a  stop  whenever 
an  official  of  any  kind  hove  in  sight.  Also  we  used 
the  mellow  horn,  for  our  book  said  that  horns  of  the 
Klaxon  type  are  not  allowed  in  Switzerland. 

We  were  on  soft  pedal,  you  see,  and  some  of  the 
cars  we  met  were  equally  subdued.  But  we  observed 
others  that  were  not — cars  that  were  just  bowhng 
along  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  and  when  these 
passed  us,  we  were  surprised  to  find  that  they  were 
not  ignorant,  strange  cars,  but  Swiss  cars,  or  at  least 
cars  with  Swiss  nimiber-plates  and  familiar  with 
the  dangers.  As  for  the  whistles,  they  were  honk- 
ing and  snorting  and  screeching  just  as  if  they  were 
in  Connecticut,  where  there  is  no  known  law  that 
forbids  anything  except  fishing  on  Simday.  Indeed, 
one  of  the  most  sudden  and  violent  horns  I  have 
ever  heard  overtook  us  just  then,  and  I  nearly  jumped 
over  the  windshield  when  it  abruptly  opened  on  me 
from  behind. 

"Good  G — ,  that  is,  goodness!"  I  said,  "this  is 
just  like  France ! "  and  I  let  out  a  few  knots  and  tooted 
the  Klaxonette,  and  was  doing  finely  when  suddenly 
a  mounted  policeman  appeared  on  the  curve  ahead. 
I  could  feel  myself  scrouging  as  we  passed,  going 
with  great  deliberation.  He  did  not  offer  to  molest 
me,  but  we  did  not  hurry  again — not  right  away. 
Not  that  we  cared  to  hurry;  the  picture  landscape 
we  were  in  was  worth  all  the  time  one  could  give  it. 
Still,  we  were  anxious  to  get  to  Lausanne  before 
dusk,  and  little  by  little  we  saw  and  heard  things 
which  convinced  us  that  "Everybody  gets  arrested 


loo         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

in  Swit25erland"  is  a  superstition,  the  explosion  of 
which  was  about  due.  Fully  half  the  people  we 
met,  all  that  passed  us,  could  properly  have  been 
arrested  anywhere.  By  the  time  we  reached  Lausanne 
we  should  have  been  arrested  ourselves. 


Chapter   XVII 

SOME  SWISS  IMPRESSIONS 

TVIOW,  when  one  has  reached  Switzerland,  his  incK- 
^  ^  nation  is  not  to  go  on  traveling,  for  a  time  at 
least,  but  to  linger  and  enjoy  certain  advantages. 
First,  of  course,  there  is  the  scenery;  the  lakes,  the 
terraced  hiUs,  and  the  snow-capped  mountains;  the 
chateaux,  chalets,  and  mossy  villages;  the  old  inns 
and  brand-new,  heaven-climbing  hotels.  And  then 
Switzerland  is  the  land  of  the  three  F's — French, 
Food,  and  Freedom,  all  attractive  things.  For 
Switzerland  is  the  model  republic,  without  graft  and 
without  greed;  its  schools,  whether  public  or  private, 
enjoy  the  patronage  of  all  civilized  lands,  and  as  to 
the  matter  of  food,  Switzerland  is  the  table  d'hdte 
of  the  world. 

Swiss  landlords  are  combined  into  a  sort  of  trust, 
not,  as  would  be  the  case  elsewhere,  to  keep  prices 
up,  but  to  keep  prices  down!  It  is  the  result  of 
wisdom,  a  far-seeing  prudence  which  says:  "Our 
scenery,  our  climate,  otir  pure  water — these  are  our 
stock  in  trade.  Our  profit  from  them  is  through  the 
visitor.  Wherefore  we  will  encourage  visitors  with 
good  food,  attractive  accommodations,  courtesy; 
and  we  will  be  content  with  small  profit  from  each, 
thus  inviting  a  general,  even  if  modest,  prosperity; 
also,  incidentally,  the  cheerfulness  and  good  will  of 


102         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

our  patrons."  It  is  a  policy  which  calls  for  careful 
management,  one  that  has  made  hotel-keeping  in 
Switzerland  an  exact  science — a  gift,  in  fact,  trans- 
mitted down  the  generations,  a  sort  of  magic;  for 
nothing  short  of  magic  could  supply  a  spotless  room, 
steam  heated,  with  windows  opening  upon  the  lake, 
and  three  meals — the  evening  meal  a  seven-course 
dinner  of  the  first  order — all  for  six  francs  fifty  (one 
dollar  and  thirty  cents)  a  day.^ 

It  is  a  policy  which  prevails  in  other  directions. 
Not  all  things  are  cheap  in  Switzerland,  but  most 
things  are — the  things  which  one  buys  oftenest — 
woolen  clothing  and  food.  Cotton  goods  are  not 
cheap,  for  Switzerland  does  not  grow  cotton,  and 
there  are  a  few  other  such  items.  Shoes  are  cheap 
enough,  if  one  will  wear  the  Swiss  make,  but  few 
visitors  like  to  view  them  on  their  own  feet.  They 
enjoy  them  most  when  they  hear  them  clattering 
along  on  the  feet  of  Swiss  children,  the  wooden  soles 
beating  out  a  rhythmic  measure  that  soimds  like  a 
coopers'  chorus.  Not  all  Swiss  shoes  have  wooden 
soles,  but  the  others  do  not  gain  grace  by  their 
absence. 

Swiss  cigars  are  also  cheap.  I  am  not  a  purist  in 
cigars,  but  at  home  I  have  smoked  a  good  many  and 
seldom  with  safety  one  that  cost  less  than  ten  cents, 
straight.  One  pays  ten  centimes,  or  two  cents,  in 
Switzerland,  and  gets  a  mild,  evenly  burning  article. 
I  judge  it  is  made  of  tobacco,  though  the  head  of 
the  family  suggested  other  things  that  she  thought 
it  smelled  Uke.     If  she  had  smoked  one  of  them,  she 

*In  1913-14.    The  rate  to-day  is  somewhat  higher. 


SOME  SWISS  IMPRESSIONS  103 

would  not  have  noticed  this  pectiliarity  any  more. 
Wine  is  cheap,  of  course,  for  the  hillsides  are  covered 
with  vines;  also,  whisk — ^but  I  am  wandering  into 
economic  statistics  without  really  meaning  to  do  so. 
They  were  the  first  things  that  impressed  me. 

The  next,  I  beHeve,  was  the  lack  of  Swiss  politics. 
Switzerland  is  a  republic  that  nms  with  the  exactness 
of  a  Swiss  watch,  its  machinery  as  hermetically  con- 
cealed. I  had  heard  that  the  Swiss  RepubHc  sets  the 
pattern  of  government  for  the  world,  and  I  was 
anxious  to  know  something  of  its  methods  and  per- 
sonnel. I  was  sorry  that  I  was  so  ignorant.  I  didn't 
even  know  the  name  of  the  Swiss  President,  and  for 
a  week  was  ashamed  to  confess  it.  I  was  hoping  I 
might  see  it  in  one  of  the  French  papers  I  puzzled 
over  every  evening.  But  at  the  end  of  the  week  I 
timidly  and  apologetically  inquired  of  our  friendly 
landlord  as  to  the  name  of  the  Swiss  Chief  Executive. 

But  then  came  a  shock.  Our  landlord  grew  con- 
fused, blushed,  and  confessed  that  he  didn't  know  it, 
either!  He  had  known  it,  he  said,  of  course,  but  it 
had  slipped  his  mind.  Slipped  his  mind!  Think  of 
the  name  of  Roosevelt,  or  Wilson,  or  Taft  slipping 
the  mind  of  anybody  in  America — and  a  landlord! 
I  asked  the  man  who  sold  me  cigars.  He  had  for- 
gotten, too.  I  asked  the  apothecary,  but  got  no 
information.  I  was  not  so  timid  after  that.  I  asked 
a  fellow  passenger — guest,  I  mean,  an  American,  but 
of  long  Swiss  residence — and  got  this  story.  I 
believe  most  of  it.     He  said : 

"When  I  came  to  Switzerland  and  foimd  out  what 
a  wonderful  Uttle  cotmtry  it  was,  its  government  so 

o 


I04         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

economical,  so  free  from  party  corruption  and  spoils, 
from  graft  and  politics,  so  different  from  the  home 
life  of  our  own  dear  Columbia,  I  thought,  'The  man 
at  the  head  of  this  thing  must  be  a  master  hand;  I'll 
find  out  his  name.'  So  I  picked  out  a  bright-looking 
subject,  and  said: 

"'What  is  the  name  of  the  Swiss  President?* 

"He  tried  to  pretend  he  didn't  understand  my 
French,  but  he  did,  for  I  can  tear  the  language  off 
aU  right — learned  it  studying  art  in  Paris.  When  I 
pinned  him  down,  he  said  he  knew  the  name  well 
enough,  parfaitement,  but  couldn't  think  of  it  at 
that  moment. 

"That  was  a  surprise,  but  I  asked  the  next  man. 
He  couldn't  think  of  it,  either.  Then  I  asked  a 
police  officer.  Of  course  he  knew  it,  all  right;  'oh 
out,  certainement,  mats' — then  he  scratched  his  head 
and  scowled,  but  he  couldn't  dig  up  that  name. 
He  was  just  a  plain  prevaricator — toute  simplement — 
like  the  others.  I  asked  every  man  I  met,  and  every 
one  of  them  knew  it,  had  it  right  on  the  end  of  his 
tongue ;  but  somehow  it  seemed  to  stick  there.  Not . 
a  man  in  Vevey  or  Montreux  could  tell  me  the  name 
of  the  Swiss  President.  It  was  the  same  in  Fribourg, 
the  same  even  in  Berne,  the  capital.  I  had  about 
given  it  up  when  one  evening,  there  in  Berne,  I 
noticed  a  sturdy  man  with  an  honest  face,  approach- 
ing. He  looked  intelligent,  too,  and  as  a  last  resort 
I  said: 

"'Could  you,  by  any  chance,  tell  me  the  name  of 
the  Swiss  President?* 

"The  effect  was  startling.    He  seized  me  by  the 


SOME  SWISS  IMPRESSIONS  105 

ann  and,  after  looking  up  and  down  the  street, 
leaned  forward  and  whispered  in  my  ear: 

*'*Mon  Dieu!  c'est  moi!  I  am  the  Swiss  President; 
but — ah  non,  don't  tell  anyone!  I  am  the  only  man 
in  Switzerland  who  knows  it!* 

"You  see,"  my  friend  continued,  "he  is  elected 
privately,  no  torchlight  campaigns,  no  scandal,  and 
only  for  a  year.  He  is  only  a  sort  of  chairman, 
though  of  course  his  work  is  important,  and  the 
present  able  inctunbent  has  been  elected  a  number 
of  times.  His  name  is — is — ^is — ^ah  yes,  that's  my 
tram.  So  sorry  to  have  to  hurry  away.  See  you 
to-night  at  dinner." 

One  sees  a  good  many  nationalities  in  Switzerland, 
and  some  of  them  I  soon  learned  to  distinguish. 
When  I  saw  a  man  with  a  dinky  Panama  hat  pulled 
down  about  his  face,  and  wearing  a  big  black  mus- 
tache or  beard,  I  knew  he  was  a  Frenchman.  When 
I  met  a  stout,  red-faced  man,  with  a  pack  on  his 
back  and  with  hobnailed  shoes,  short  trousers,  and 
a  little  felt  hat  with  a  feather  stuck  in  it,  I  knew  him 
for  a  German.  When  I  noticed  a  very  carefully 
dressed  person,  with  correct  costume  and  gaiters — 
also  monocle,  if  perfect — saying,  "Aw — Swiss  people 
— so  queah,  don't  you  know,"  I  was  pretty  sure  he 
was  an  Englishman.  When  I  remarked  a  tall,  limber 
person,  carrying  a  copy  of  the  Paris  Herald  and  asking 
every  other  person  he  met,  "Hey,  there!  Vooly  voo 
mir  please  sagen — "  all  the  rest  incomprehensible, 
I  knew  him  for  an  American  of  the  deepest  dye.  The 
Swiss  themselves  have  no  such  distinguishing  mark. 
They  are  just  sturdy,  plainly  dressed,  unpretentious 


io6        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

people,  polite  and  friendly,  with  a  look  of  capability, 
cleanliness,  and  honesty  which  invites  confidence. 

An  Englishwoman  said  to  me: 

"I  have  heard  that  the  Swiss  are  the  best  governed 
and  the  least  intelligent  people  in  the  worid." 

I  reflected  on  this.  It  had  a  snappy  sound,  but 
it  somehow  did  not  seem  to  be  firm  at  the  joints. 
"The  best  governed  and  the  least  intelligent" — 
there  was  something  dnmken  about  it.     I  said: 

"It  doesn't  quite  seem  to  fit.  And  how  about 
the  magnificent  Swiss  public-school  system,  and  the 
manufacturing,  and  the  national  railway,  with  all 
the  splendid  engineering  that  goes  with  the  building 
of  the  fimiculars  and  ttmnels?  And  the  Swiss  pros- 
perity, and  the  medical  practice,  and  the  sciences? 
I  always  imagined  those  things  were  in  some  way 
connected  with  intelligence." 

"Oh,  well,"  she  said,  "I  suppose  they  do  go  with 
intelligence  of  a  kind ;  but  then,  of  course,  you  kiiow 
what  I  mean." 

But  I  was  somehow  too  dull  for  her  epigram.  It 
didn't  seem  to  have  any  sense  in  it.  She  was  a  grass 
widow  and  I  think  she  made  it  herself.  Later  she 
asked  me  whereabouts  in  America  I  came  from. 
When  I  said  Connecticut,  she  asked  if  Connecticut 
was  as  big  as  Lausanne.  A  woman  like  that  ought 
to  go  out  of  the  epigram  business.* 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  good  many  foreigners  are 
inclined  to  say  rather  peevish  things  about  sturdy 


*I  have  thought  since  that  she  may  have  meant  that  the  Swiss 
do  not  lead  the  world  in  the  art  and  Uterary  industries.  She  may 
have  coimected  those  things  with  intelligence — ^you  never  can  tell. 


SOME  SWISS  IMPRESSIONS  107 

little,  thriving  little,  happy  little  Switzerland.  I 
rather  suspect  they  are  a  bit  jealous  of  the  pocket- 
de-luxe  nation  that  shelters  them,  and  feeds  them, 
and  entertains  them,  and  cures  them,  cheaper  and 
better  and  kindlier  than  their  home  countries.  They 
are  willing  to  enjoy  these  advantages,  but  they 
acknowledge  rather  grudgingly  that  Switzerland, 
without  a  great  standing  army,  a  horde  of  grafters, 
or  a  regiment  of  tariff  millionaires  to  support,  can 
give  lessons  in  national  housekeeping  to  their  own 
larger,  more  pretentious  lands. 

I  would  not  leave  the  impression,  by  the  way,  that 
the  Swiss  are  invariably  prosperous.  Indeed,  some 
of  them  along  the  lake  must  have  been  very  poor 
just  then,  for  the  grape  crop  had  failed  two  years  in 
succession,  and  with  many  of  them  their  vineyard  is 
their  all.  But  there  was  no  outward  destitution,  no 
rags,  no  dirt,  no  begging.  Whatever  his  privation, 
the  Swiss  does  not  wear  his  poverty  on  his  sleeve. 

Switzerland  has  two  other  official  languages  besides 
French — German  and  ItaHan.  Government  docu- 
ments, even  the  postal  cards,  are  printed  in  these 
three  languages.  It  would  seem  a  small  coimtry  for 
three  well-developed  tongues,  besides  all  the  canton 
dialects,  some  of  which  go  back  to  the  old  Romanic, 
and  are  quite  distinct  from  anything  modem.  The 
French,  German,  and  Italian  divisions  are  geograph- 
ical, the  lines  of  separation  pretty  distinct.  There 
is  rivalry  among  the  cantons,  a  healthy  rivalry,  in 
matters  of  progress  and  education.  The  cantons 
are  sufficiently  a  imit  on  all  national  questions,  and 
together  they  form  about  as  compact  and  sturdy  a 


io8         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

little  nation  as  the  world  has  yet  seen — a  nation  the 
size  and  shape  of  an  English  walnut,  and  a  hard  nut 
for  any  would-be  aggressor  to  crack.  There  are  not 
many  entrances  into  Switzerland,  and  they  would 
be  very  well  defended.  The  standing  army  is  small, 
but  every  Swiss  is  subject  to  a  call  to  arms,  and  is 
trained  by  enforced,  though  brief,  service  to  their 
use.  He  seems  by  nature  to  be  handy  with  a  rifle, 
and  never  allows  himself  to  be  out  of  practice.  There 
are  regtilar  practice  meets  every  Sunday,  and  I  am 
told  the  government  supplies  the  cartridges.  Boys 
organize  little  companies  and  regiments  and  this  the 
government  also  encourages.  It  is  said  that  Swit- 
zerland could  put  half  a  million  soldiers  in  the  field, 
and  that  every  one  would  be  a  crack  shot.*  The 
German  Kaiser,  once  reviewing  the  Swiss  troops, 
remarked,  casually,  to  a  sub-officer,  "You  say  you 
could  muster  half  a  million  soldiers?" 

"Yes,  Your  Majesty." 

"And  suppose  I  should  send  a  million  of  my  soldiers 
against  you.     What  would  you  do  then  ?" 

"We  should  fire  two  shots  apiece,  Your  Majesty." 

In  every  Swiss  town  there  are  regular  market  days, 
important  events  where  one  may  profitably  observe 
the  people.  The  sale  of  vegetables  and  flowers 
must  support  many  families.  In  each  town  there 
is  an  open  square,  which  twice  a  week  is  picturesquely 
crowded,  and  there  one  may  buy  everything  to  eat 
and  many  things  to  wear;  also,  the  wherewith  to 
improve  the  home,  the  garden,  and  even  the  mind; 

*When  the  call  to  arms  came,  August  I,  1914,  Switzerland  put 
250,000  men  on  her  frontier  in  twenty-four  hours. 


'H  '^jm^"  h-y^M^T'^i'w^fWW^ 


MARCHE  vevey 

"In  Each  Town  There  Is  an  Open  Sqvare,  Which  Twice  a  Week  Is 

Picturesquely  Crowded  " 


\ 


SOME  SWISS  IMPRESSIONS  109 

for  besides  the  garden  things  there  are  stalls  of  second- 
hand books,  hardware,  furniture,  and  general  knick- 
knacks.  Flanking  the  streets  are  displays  of  ribbons, 
laces,  hats,  knitted  things,  and  general  dry-goods 
miscellany;  also  antiques,  the  scrapings  of  many  a 
Swiss  cupboard  and  comer. 

But  it  is  in  the  open  square  itself  that  the  greater 
market  blooms — really  blooms,  for,  in  season,  the 
vegetables  are  truly  floral  in  their  rich  vigor,  and 
among  them  are  pots  and  bouquets  of  the  posies  that 
the  Swiss,  like  all  Europeans,  so  dearly  love.  Most 
of  the  flower  and  vegetable  displays  are  down  on  the 
grotmd,  arranged  in  baskets  or  on  bits  of  paper,  and 
form  a  succession  of  gay  Httle  gardens,  ranged  in 
long  narrow  avenues  of  color  and  movement,  a  pic- 
ture of  which  we  do  not  grow  weary.  Nor  of  the 
setting — the  quaint  tile-roofed  buildings;  the  blue 
lake,  with  its  sails  and  swans  and  throng  of  wheeling 
gulls;  the  green  hills;  the  lofty  snow-capped  moun- 
tains that  look  down  from  every  side.  How  many 
sights  those  ancient  peaks  have  seen  on  this  same 
square! — markets  and  military,  battles  and  buf- 
foonery. There  are  no  battles  to-day,  but  the  Swiss 
cadets  use  it  for  a  drill  ground,  and  every  little  while 
lightsome  shows  and  merry-go-rounds  establish  them- 
selves in  one  end  of  it,  and  the  little  people  skip  about, 
and  go  riding  aroimd  and  around  to  the  latest  rag- 
time, while  the  moimtains  look  down  with  their  large 
complaisance,  just  as  they  watched  the  capering 
ancestors  of  these  small  people,  ages  and  ages  ago; 
just  as  they  will  watch  their  light-footed  descendants 
for  a  million  years,  maybe. 


no         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

The  market  is  not  confined  entirely  to  the  square. 
On  its  greater  days,  when  many  loads  of  wood  and 
hay  crowd  one  side  of  it,  it  overflows  into  the  streets. 
Aroimd  a  floral  fountain  may  be  foimd  butter,  eggs, 
and  cheese — oh,  especially  cheese,  the  cheese  of 
Gruy^re,  with  every  size  and  pattern  of  holes,  in  any 
quantity,  cut  and  weighed  by  a  handsome  apple- 
faced  woman  who  seems  the  living  embodiment  of 
the  cheese  industry.  I  have  heard  it  said — this  was 
in  America — that  the  one  thing  not  to  be  obtained 
in  Switzerland  is  Swiss  cheese.  The  person  who 
conceived  that  smartness  belongs  with  the  one  who 
invented  the  "intelligence"  epigram. 

On  the  market  days  before  Christmas  our  square 
had  a  different  look.  The  little  displays  were  full  of 
greenery,  and  in  the  center  of  the  market  place  there 
had  sprung  up  a  forest  of  Christmas  trees.  They 
were  not  in  heaps,  lying  flat;  but  each,  mounted  on 
a  neat  tripod  stand,  stood  upright,  as  if  planted 
there.  They  made  a  veritable  Santa  Claus  forest, 
and  the  gayly  dressed  young  people  walking  among 
them,  looking  and  selecting,  added  to  this  pretty 
sight. 

The  Swiss  make  much  of  Christmas.  Their  shop 
windows  are  overflowing  with  decorations  and  attrac- 
tive things.  Vevey  is  "Chocolate  Town."  Most 
of  the  great  chocolate  factories  of  Europe  are  there, 
and  at  all  hoUday  seasons  the  grocery  and  confec- 
tionary windows  bear  special  evidence  of  this  industry. 
Chocolate  Santa  Clauses — very  large — chickens,  rab- 
bits, and  the  like — life  size;  also  trees,  groups,  set 
pieces,  ornaments — the  windows  are  wildernesses  of 


SOME  SWISS  IMPRESSIONS  in 

the  rich  brown  confection,  all  so  skillfully  modeled 
and  arranged. 

The  toy  windows,  too,  are  fascinating.  You 
would  know  at  once  that  you  were  looking  into  a 
Swiss  toy  window,  from  the  variety  of  carved  bears; 
also,  from  the  toy  chateaux — very  fine  and  large, 
with  walled  courts,  portcullises,  and  battlements — 
with  which  the  Uttle  Swiss  lad  plays  war.  The  dolls 
are  different,  too,  and  the  toy  books — all  in  French. 
But  none  of  these  things  were  as  interesting  as  the 
children  standing  outside,  pointing  at  them  and 
discussing  them — so  easily,  so  glibly — in  French. 
How  Uttle  they  guessed  my  envy  of  them  — 
how  gladly  I  would  buy  out  that  toy  window 
for,  say,  seven  dollars,  and  trade  it  to  them  for 
their  glib  tmconsciousness  of  gender  and  number 
and  case. 

On  the  afternoon  before  Christmas  the  bells  began. 
From  the  high  moimtain-sides,  out  of  deep  ravines 
that  led  back  into  the  hinterland,  came  the  ringing. 
The  hills  seemed  full  of  bells — a  sound  that  must  go 
echoing  from  range  to  range,  to  the  north  and  to  the 
south,  traveling  across  Europe  with  the  afternoon. 
Then,  on  Christmas  Day,  the  trees.  In  every  home 
and  school  and  hotel  they  sparkled.  We  attended 
four  in  the  course  of  the  day,  one,  a  very  gorgeous 
one  in  the  lofty  festooned  hall  of  a  truly  grand  hotel, 
with  tea  served  and  soft  music  stealing  from  some 
concealed  place — a  slow  strain  of  the  "Tannenbaum," 
which  is  like  our  "Maryland,"  only  more  beautiful — 
and  seemed  to  come  from  a  source  celestial.  And 
when  one  remembered  that  in  every  comer  of  Europe 


112         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

something  of  the  kind  was  going  on,  and  that  it  was 
all  done  in  memory  and  in  honor  of  One  who,  along 
dusty  roadsides  and  in  waste  places,  taught  the  doc- 
trine of  humility,  one  wondered  if  the  world  might 
not  be  worth  saving,  after  all. 


Chapter  XVIII 

THE  LITTLE  TOWN  OP  VEVEY 

TT  would  seem  to  be  the  French  cantons  along  the 
*  Lake  of  Geneva  (or  Leman)  that  most  attract 
the  deliberate  traveler.  The  north  shore  of  this 
lake  is  called  the  Swiss  Riviera,  for  it  has  a  short, 
mild  winter,  with  quick  access  to  the  mountaintops. 
But  perhaps  it  is  the  schools,  the  pensionnats,  that 
hold  the  greater  number.  The  whole  shore  of  the 
Lake  of  Geneva  is  lined  with  them,  and  they  are  filled 
with  young  persons  of  all  ages  and  nations,  who  are 
there  mainly  to  learn  French,  though  incidentally, 
through  that  lingual  mediimi,  other  knowledge  is 
acquired.  Some,  indeed,  attend  the  fine  public 
schools,  where  the  drill  is  very  thorough,  even  severe. 
Parents,  as  well  as  children,  generally  attend  school 
in  Switzerland — visiting  parents,  I  mean.  They 
imdertake  French,  which  is  the  thing  to  do,  like 
mountain  climbing  and  winter  sports.  Some  buy 
books  and  seclude  their  struggles;  others  have  private 
lessons;  still  others  openly  attend  one  of  the  grown-up 
language  schools,  or  try  to  find  board  at  French- 
speaking  pensions.  Their  progress  and  efforts  form 
the  main  topic  of  conversation.  In  a  way  it  makes 
for  a  renewal  of  youth. 

We  had  rested  at  Vevey,  that  quiet,  clean  little 
picture-city,  not  so  busy  and  big  as  Lausanne,  or  so 


114         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

grand  and  stylish  as  Montreux,  but  more  peaceful 
than  either,  and,  being  more  level,  better  adapted 
for  motor  headquarters.  Off  the  main  street  at 
Montreux,  the  back  or  the  front  part  of  a  car  is  always 
up  in  the  air,  and  it  has  to  be  chained  to  the  garage. 
We  found  a  level  garage  in  Vevey,  and  picked  out 
pensionnats  for  Narcissa  and  the  Joy,  and  satisfactorj'- 
quarters  for  ourselves.  Though  still  warm  and 
summer-like,  it  was  already  late  autimm  by  the 
calendar,  and  not  a  time  for  long  motor  adventures. 
We  would  see  what  a  Swiss  winter  was  like.  We 
would  wrestle  with  the  French  idiom.  We  would 
spend  the  months  face  to  face  with  the  lake,  the  high- 
perched  hotels  and  villages,  the  snow-capped,  cloud- 
capped  hills. 

Probably  everybody  has  heard  of  Vevey,  but  per- 
haps there  are  still  some  who  do  not  know  it  by  heart, 
and  will  be  glad  of  a  word  or  two  of  details.  Vevey 
has  been  a  place  of  habitation  for  a  long  time.  A 
wandering  Asian  tribe  once  came  down  that  way, 
rested  a  himdred  years  or  so  along  the  Leman  shore, 
then  went  drifting  up  the  Rhone  and  across  the 
Simplon  to  make  trouble  for  Rome.  But  perhaps 
there  was  no  Rome  then;  it  was  a  long  time  ago, 
and  it  did  not  leave  any  dates,  only  a  few  bronze 
implements  and  trifles  to  show  the  track  of  the  storm. 
The  Helvetians  came  then,  sturdy  and  warlike,  and 
then  the  Romans,  who  may  have  preserved  tradi- 
tions of  the  pleasant  land  from  that  first  wandering 
tribe. 

Caesar  came  marching  down  the  Rhone  and  along 
this  waterside,  and  his  followers  camped  in  the  Vevey 


THE  LITTLE  TOWN  OF  VEVEY  115 

ncighborhcx>d  a  good  while — about  four  centuries, 
some  say.  Certain  rich  Romans  built  their  summer 
villas  in  Switzerland,  and  the  lake  shore  must  have 
had  its  share.  But  if  there  were  any  at  Vevey,  there 
is  no  very  positive  trace  of  them  now.  In  the  depths 
of  the  Castle  of  Chillon,  they  show  you  Roman  con- 
struction in  the  foimdations,  but  that  may  have 
been  a  fortress. 

I  am  forgetting,  however.  One  day,  when  we  had 
been  there  a  month  or  two,  and  were  clawing  up  the 
steep  hill — Mount  Pelerin — that  rises  back  of  the 
hotel  to  yet  other  hotels,  and  to  compact  little  vil- 
lages, we  strayed  into  a  tiny  lane  just  below  Char- 
donne,  and  came  to  a  stone  watering  trough,  or  foun- 
tain, under  an  enormous  tree.  Such  troughs,  with 
their  clear,  flowing  water,  are  plentiful  enough,  but 
this  one  had  a  feature  all  its  own.  The  stone  upright 
which  held  the  flowing  spout  had  not  been  designed 
for  that  special  purpose.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  upper 
part  of  a  small  colimm,  capital  and  all,  very  old  and 
mended,  and  distinctly  of  Roman  design.  I  do  not 
know  where  it  came  from,  and  I  do  not  care  to  inquire 
too  deeply,  for  I  like  to  think  it  is  a  fragment  of  one 
of  those  villas  that  overlooked  the  Lake  of  Geneva 
long  ago. 

There  are  villas  enough  about  the  lake  to-day, 
and  chateaux  by  the  dozen,  most  of  the  latter  begun 
in  the  truculent  Middle  Ages  and  continued  through 
the  centuries  down  to  within  a  hundred  years  or  so 
ago.  You  cannot  walk  or  drive  in  any  direction 
without  coming  to  them,  some  in  ruins,  but  most  of 
them  well  preserved  or  carefully  restored,  and  habit- 


ii6        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

able;  some,  like  beautiful  Blonay,  holding  descend- 
ants of  their  ancient  owners.  From  the  top  of  our 
hotel,  with  a  glass,  one  could  pick  out  as  many  as 
half  a  dozen,  possibly  twice  that  number.  They 
were  just  towers  of  defense  originally,  the  wings  and 
other  architectural  excursions  being  added  as  peace 
and  prosperity  and  family  life  increased.  One  very 
old  and  handsome  one,  la  Tour  de  Peilz,  now  gives 
its  name  to  a  part  of  Vevey,  though  in  the  old  days 
it  is  said  that  venomous  little  wars  used  to  rage 
between  Vevey  proper  and  the  village  which  clustered 
about  the  chMeau  de  Peilz.  Readers  of  Little  Women 
will  remember  la  Tour  de  Peilz,  for  it  was  along  its 
lake  wall  that  Laurie  proposed  to  Amy. 

But  a  little  way  down  the  lake  there  is  a  more 
celebrated  chateau  than  la  Tour  de  Peilz;  the  chateau 
of  Chillon,  which  Byron's  poem  of  the  prisoner  Bon- 
ivard  has  made  familiar  for  a  hundred  years. ^  Chil- 
lon, which  stands  not  exactly  on  the  lake,  but  on  a 
rock  in  the  lake,  has  not  preserved  the  beginning  of 
its  history.  Those  men  of  the  bronze  age  camped 
there,  and,  if  the  evidences  shown  are  genmne,  the 
Romans  built  a  part  of  the  foundation.  Also,  in 
one  of  its  lower  recesses  there  are  the  remains  of  a 
rude  altar  of  sacrifice. 

It  is  a  fascinating  place.  You  cross  a  little  draw- 
bridge, and  through  a  heavy  gateway  enter  a  guard- 
room and  pass  to  a  pretty  open  court,  where  to-day 
there  are  vines  and  blooming  flowers.  Then  you 
descend  to  the  big  barrack  room,  a  hall  of  ponderous 
masonry,  pass  through  a  small  room,  with  its  per- 

1  Written  at  the  Anchor  Inn,  Ouchy,  Lausanne,  in  1817. 


THE  LITTLE  TOWN  OF  VEVEY  117 

fectly  black  cell  below  for  the  condemned,  through 
another,  where  a  high  gibbet-beam  still  remains, 
and  into  a  spacious  corridor  of  pillars  called  now  the 
"Prison  of  Bonivard." 

There  are  seven  pillars  of  gothic  mold 
In  Chillon's  dtingeons  deep  and  old;  .  .  • 
Dim  with  a  dull  imprisoned  ray, 
A  sunbeam  which  has  lost  its  way  .  .  . 
And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a  ring 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a  chain. 
That  iron  is  a  cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain.  .  .  . 

Bonivard's  ring  is  still  there,  and  the  rings  of  his 
two  brothers  who  were  chained,  one  on  each  side  of 
him;  chained,  as  he  tells  us,  so  rigidly  that 

We  could  not  move  a  single  pace; 
We  could  not  see  each  other's  face. 

We  happened  to  be  there,  once,  when  a  sunbeam 
that  "had  lost  its  way"  came  straying  in,  a  larger 
simbeam  now,  for  the  narrow  slits  that  serve  for 
windows  were  even  narrower  in  Bonivard's  time, 
and  the  place,  light  enough  to-day  in  pleasant  weather, 
was  then  somber,  damp,  and  probably  unclean. 

Bonivard  was  a  Geneva  patriot,  a  political  prisoner 
of  the  Duke  of  Savoy,  who  used  Chillon  as  his  chateau. 
Bonivard  lived  six  years  in  Chillon,  most  of  the  time 
chained  to  a  column,  barely  able  to  move,  having  for 
recreation  shrieks  from  the  torture  chamber  above, 
or  the  bustle  of  execution  from  the  small  adjoining 
cell.    How  he  lived,  how  his  reason  survived,  are 


ii8         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

things  not  to  be  understood.  Both  his  brothers 
died,  and  at  last  Bonivard  was  allowed  more  liberty. 
The  poem  tells  us  that  he  made  a  footing  in  the  wall, 
and  climbed  up  to  look  out  on  the  mountains  and 
blue  water,  and  a  little  island  of  three  trees,  and  the 
"white- walled  distant  town" — Bouveret,  across  the 
lake.  He  was  delivered  by  the  Bernese  in  1536, 
regaining  his  freedom  with  a  sigh,  according  to  the 
poem.  Yet  he  survived  many  years,  dying  in  1570, 
at  the  age  of  seventy-four. 

On  the  columns  in  Bonivard's  dungeon  many 
names  are  carved,  some  of  them  the  greatest  in 
modem  Hterary  history.  Byron's  is  there,  Victor 
Hugo's,  Shelley's,  and  others  of  the  sort.  They  are 
a  tribute  to  the  place  and  its  history,  of  course,  but 
even  more  to  Bonivard — the  Bonivard  of  Byron. 

Prisoners  of  many  kinds  have  lived  and  died  in  the 
dimgeons  of  Chillon — heretics,  witches,  traitors,  poor 
relations — persons  inconvenient  for  one  reason  or 
another — it  was  a  vanishing  point  for  the  duke's 
tmdesirables,  who,  after  the  execution,  were  weighted 
and  dropped  out  a  little  door  that  opens  directly  to 
an  almost  measureless  depth  of  blue  imcomplaining 
water.  Right  overhead  is  the  torture  chamber, 
with  something  ghastly  in  its  very  shape  and  color, 
the  central  post  still  bearing  marks  of  burning-irons 
and  clawing  steel.  Next  to  this  chamber  is  the  hall 
of  justice,  and  then  the  splendid  banquet  hall; 
everything  handy,  you  see,  so  that  when  the  duke 
had  friends,  and  the  wine  had  been  good,  and  he 
was  feeling  particularly  well,  he  could  say,  "Let's  go 
in  and  torture  a  witch";  or,  if  the  hour  was  late  and 


THE  LITTLE  TOWN  OF  VEVEY  119 

time  limited,  "Now  we'll  just  step  down  and  hang 
a  heretic  to  go  to  bed  on."  The  duke's  bedroom, 
by  the  way,  was  right  over  the  torture  chamber.  I 
would  give  something  for  that  man's  conscience. 

One  might  go  on  for  pages  about  Chillon,  but  it 
has  been  told  in  detail  so  many  times.  It  is  the  pride 
to-day  of  this  shore — ^pictures  of  it  are  in  every  win- 
dow— ^postal  cards  of  it  abound.  Yet,  somehow  one 
never  grows  tired  of  it,  and  stops  to  look  at  every 
new  one. 

For  a  thousand  years,  at  least,  Chillon  was  the 
scene  of  all  the  phases  of  feudalism  and  chivalry;  its 
history  is  that  of  the  typical  castle;  architecturally 
it  is  probably  as  good  an  example  as  there  is  in  Swit- 
zerland. It  has  been  celebrated  by  other  authors 
besides  Byron.  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  has  it  in 
his  Nouvelle  H^loise,  Hugo  in  Le  Rhin,  and  it  has 
been  pictiired  more  or  less  by  most  of  the  writing 
people  who  have  found  their  way  to  Lyman's  pleasant 
shore.  These  have  been  legion.  The  Vevey  and 
Montreux  neighborhood  has  been  always  a  place 
for  poor  but  honest  authors.  Rousseau  was  at 
Vevey  in  1732,  and  lodged  at  the  Hotel  of  the  Key, 
and  wrote  of  it  in  his  Confessions,  though  he  would 
seem  to  have  behaved  very  well  there.  The  building 
still  stands,  and  bears  a  tablet  with  a  medallion  por- 
trait of  Rousseau  and  an  extract  in  which  he  says 
that  Vevey  has  won  his  heart.  In  his  Confessions 
he  advises  all  persons  of  taste  to  go  to  Vevey,  and 
speaks  of  the  beauty  and  majesty  of  the  spectacle 
from  its  shore. 

When  Lord  Byron  visited  Lake  L^man  he  lodged 


I20         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

in  Clarens,  between  Vevey  and  Montreux,  and  a 
tablet  now  identifies  the  house.  Voltaire  also  visited 
here,  lodging  unknown.  Dumas  the  elder  was  in 
Vevey  in  the  thirties  of  the  last  century,  and  wrote 
a  book  about  Switzerland — a  book  of  extraordinary 
interest,  full  of  duels,  earthquakes,  and  other  start- 
ling things,  worthy  of  the  author  of  Monte  Crista 
and  The  Three  Musketeers.  Switzerland  was  not  so 
closely  reported  in  those  days;  an  imagination  like 
Dumas*  had  more  range.  Thackeray  wrote  a  por- 
tion of  the  Newcomes  at  the  hotel  Trois  Couronnes 
in  Vevey,  and  it  was  on  the  wide  terrace  of  the  same 
gay  hostelry  that  Henry  James's  Daisy  Miller  had 
her  parasol  scene.  We  have  already  mentioned 
Laurie  and  Amy  on  the  wall  of  Tour  de  Peilz,  and 
one  might  go  on  citing  literary  associations  of  this 
neighborhood.  Perhaps  it  would  be  easier  to  say 
that  about  every  author  who  has  visited  the  continent 
has  paused  for  a  little  time  at  Vevey,  a  statement 
which  would  apply  to  travelers  in  general. 

Vevey  is  not  a  great  city;  it  is  only  a  picturesque 
city,  with  curious,  winding  streets  of  constantly 
varying  widths,  and  irregular  little  open  spaces,  all 
very  clean,  also  very  misleading  when  one  wishes  to 
go  anywhere  with  direction  and  dispatch.  You  give 
that  up,  presently.  You  do  not  try  to  save  time  by 
cutting  through.  When  you  do,  you  arrive  in  some 
new  little  rectangle  or  confluence,  with  a  floral  foun- 
tain in  the  middle,  and  neat  little  streets  winding 
away  to  nowhere  in  particular;  then  all  at  once  you 
are  back  where  you  started.  In  this,  as  in  some 
other  points  of  resemblance,  Vevey  might  be  called 


THE  LITTLE  TOWN  OF  VEVEY  121 

the  Boston  of  Switzerland.  Not  that  I  pretend  to 
a  familiarity  with  Boston — nobody  has  that — ^but 
I  have  an  aunt  who  Uves  there,  and  every  time  I 
go  to  see  her  I  am  obliged  to  start  in  a  different 
direction  for  her  house,  though  she  claims  to  have 
been  Hving  in  the  same  place  for  thirty  years.  Some 
people  think  Boston  is  built  on  a  turn-table.  I 
don't  know;  it  soimds  reasonable. 

To  come  back  to  Vevey — ^it  is  growing — ^not  in 
the  wild,  woolly.  New  York,  Chicago,  and  Western 
way,  but  in  a  very  definite  and  substantial  way. 
They  are  building  new  houses  for  business  and  resi- 
dence, soHd  structures  of  stone  and  cement,  built, 
like  the  old  ones,  to  withstand  time.  They  do  not 
build  flimsy  fire-traps  in  Switzerland.  Whatever 
the  class  of  the  building,  the  roofs  are  tile,  the  stair- 
cases are  stone.  We  always  seem  to  court  destruc- 
tion in  our  American  residential  architecture.  We 
cover  our  roofs  with  inflammable  shingles  to  invite 
every  spark,  and  build  our  stairways  of  nice  dry  pine, 
so  that  in  the  event  of  fire  they  will  be  the  first  thing 
to  go.  This  encourages  practice  in  jimiping  out  of 
top-story  windows. 

By  day  Vevey  is  a  busy,  prosperous-looking, 
though  imhurried,  place,  its  water-front  gay  with 
visitors;  evening  comes  and  glorifies  the  lake  into 
wine,  turns  to  rose  the  snow  on  Grammont,  the  Dents 
de  Midi,  and  the  Dents  de  Morcles.  As  to  the  simset 
itself,  not  many  try  to  paint  it  any  more.  Once, 
from  our  little  balcony  we  saw  a  monoplane  pass  up 
the  lake  and  float  into  the  crimson  west,  like  a  great 
moth  or  bird.     Night  in  Vevey  is  full  of  light  and 


i2t        TH^CJAR  THAI") WBNTrXBROAD 

movement,  feut  not  of  hoisb:  -Titefels  ho  wildf^Iattj^i* 
of  voices  and  outbursts  of  Jn6tlMig'Jn'''pa;ftiey&s<v  aiidl 
ks  characterize  the  to^ns 'iif  "ltaiy'^«kfod'^«oti1^4ri 
Fra5icfe*>  Otp'i  ttm  hiilto^SLib^knof  IW^^jp^^thfe^  big 
hotels  •^atiS'-rli^ted,  bid^^ometMeSyiifc^b^lig  >tiie 
dfenmer  'Stare^ta,  we  lookedu^  to^^b^JiSi&ppattotly 'i 
fcitykl^^e-Tsky.i^stiggie^k^  cMie's'old>llde^f»f  >the'  New 
Jerusalem,  a  kind  ©^^"i^ie^^f  ^ii«W^i4g^4t'-'Wfe'#6^ 
he^(^6tra$i^fii|^0$  t  in^kii;^^'^^  ■^  ^^  ifo^d  arrioo  oT 
moiaoW  bnB  .ogBjhO  ,:rfioY  waM  .yUoow  ,blrw  sriJ 
.VBW  l&iinBiaduz  bna  sftnhab  y^sv  b  nr  iud  ,'^fiw 
-^97  bnB  ^^^m^vd  -lol  ssauod  v/9fr  §mbliud  eiB  x^dT 
Jliud  ,inomoo  bnf.  snoJa  lo  29iif;lDtnia  biloa  ,3on9b 
Ion  ob  Y^^'I*  .9mi:r  bncJarf^rAr  oi  ,2ono  blo  sri>f  sifil 
lovalBrfVT'  .bnBhosliwS  nr  aqBiJ-siii  Y^^i^  birucf 
-7iB:t3  oifJ  ,9ltJ  9XB  clooi  9iii  .snibliud  arfi  to  23bIo  srli 
-'jin:ta3b  tiuoo  o:t  rhoaz  zxrwIb  oW  .snoJa  sib  298B9 
sY/  .3iu;}o3:tif{o-iB  iBbnobrasi  nBDrisraA  mo  ni  noli 
ei'r/m  oi  aolgftixfa  olriBmmBftni  dihr  sloot  luo  lovoo 
,9niq  '{ih  oo'm  io  zxsymiiii2  iiso  bllud  bnB  ,2liBqa  x^Bve 
•gnhii  izih  edi  ed  liV/f  x^di  oift  lo  ^nava  sdi  ni  ;tBr{:r  oa 
to  Jjjo  sniqmirt  ni  9DiJ'9£iq  aa^BiuoDna  airlT     .03  o.t 

.awobnr//  Yic>:t8-qoJ 
.gniilool-aijoioqaoiq  ,'{8ud  b  si  x^^^^^  X^^  Y^ 
f{:tiw  Y^3  inoi^-T9i/;w  ai't  ,90Blq  ,b9rnijdnu  d^uodi 
oini  9>fBl  edi  aartiiolg  bnB  aomoo  §nin9V9  iaiotiaiv 
tUi^Q.  9iiJ  ,i«oius«m"C>  no  wona  odi  aaoi  o:t  ennui  ,9nr// 
jaanjja  adi  ol  aA  .z'i\:>"^C)M.  ^b  ziw^d  edi  bne  ,VbiM  ^b 
,9r>n0  .9ioni  x'^^  ^'^  inmq  oi  x^i  vnBfn  :fon  ,^l9aJi 
qrj  aaBq  9a£fqonom  b  WBa  ew  vnoolBd  dbid  ino  moil 
JB9T3  B  o>IiI  ,j^a97/  noamrio  edi  oini  JBoft  bnG  pjJlel  orD 
biTG  Jxlgil  to  IIul  ai  Y9Y9V  ni  itdsiVI     .biid  lo  lijoni 


aAO>iaA  Ti^av/  taht  ^ko  3ht       |.ii 

^on  919W  3W  iGdi  ^Ilnosoiq  osilr.oi  oi  n^^ed  0^/7  .aifii 
odi  m  bobsod  bomaaa  ovf  .Uiyd  .b£oi  bio  itjo  no 
9W  '^Dn9237q  nsilT  .no  iqoil  07/  bns  noicToaiib  ixl^n 
.bfioi  v/OTi£n  B  YcP|«HPfifi;^X- I  £  sntdmib  aiow 
.bnuoiB  gnrmni  lo  :tinr.3q  cTon  bib  ;tBf{i  sno 

B  2BV/  ^F.rli  ;tr.ra      Hirl  orii  lo/o  fi  bluov/  ov/    ;q99l2 

ajj;;^  for  jt;^^.  ,;r^:^.i5nH^^P8^ 
^  ^yeii^.npfjg^i^fja^  ^go^^on4  pf? stiff:  fclimbirig? 
^i^.jij^e  ^?  \y^4ff^ffilij^^  TQad^.'jtha'K'lEhreidr'eocyi 
orchard ,  lan^5f  ^cf  lea4;  to  geqludi^  villages  -  ttickSed 
a^jij^  ,^l ,.j^^p,  se^  io^gptten :  :90]rn^?a.  of :  a  l^ygone 
tim^  ofB^)  J^<^;fli^gh^a^  ;Sldrt-9,,tt^oM£»-front  a^ 
iq9jd^^^^gh^-a\Kfvy;  ^wajg4:Qe^vq.9rOr  up  the-RlWine 
VaUeys ,  past,  ;^^^;tignjy,,^p^a^d^  the  .'3iiSapion  Pass.:  f  ■ .  lb 
^^  always  lpe9n/%;^934,:fi5P«i  in  At^ntimeP  haslbefea 
^lJ9^fl4,,j3yj^c^4;P!f  th/?bB?§fttest  iamuesrthe  wdrlti 
h^  ever;  seea:^—t}:f;^r%Tpgp^i<^*^saruof^ 
^^jNfjppl^p^  oT;"  .noiiooiib  .t;  ■  or  hvp/i;  T'I^-u/I 
^,^|jfJB,w^yp  |i^i.J^,^[^tl%putc'Pttr  ow«)idxi5[drien(iaj in 
motor  mountain  climbing.  We  did  not  want;;it')qE 
il^yi^e  it;jit  w^jthwstjipion.us.  TK0  iwer©  Teti»H&ig 
ffpnji  M^ign;^^, l^t^I  on^;  ^lin^ay  aftejfriponi  [expetfting 
ip  r^^ql^^.y^yej^jSEof;  #:>neffl-  Jt  wa$  pleasa&biandi  wb 
did  no^, .iurry. , n jWp^  ecmld  , i^ot,  in ' ia<?t,  fbr : below 
■j^^ej^t^uye  w^i  ^flij  in,.Myitl>3  the  homirtg  icorrst^  aird 
tir^Ypl^  witl|i[  atitqni4i;i;i{g  ..J^wds— rb^ide  u^^n  before 
tts^,  b^ind.t^f-y^tfi.fle^,  ^handsomfe;  animals;:  ari 
escattf,wh^^;d^(;notr;i:pwt  of  h^te.  Perhaps.; ii 
yr^jjiYoi(%g thjf^a  j^^i^^u^  our,ftJtetake;.  at  aiy 


114         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

rate,  we  began  to  realize  presently  that  we  were  not 
on  our  old  road.  Still,  we  seemed  headed  in  the 
right  direction  and  we  kept  on.  Then  presently  we 
were  climbing  a  hill — climbing  by  a  narrow  road, 
one  that  did  not  permit  of  turning  aroimd. 

Very  well,  we  said,  it  cotild  not  be  very  high  or 
steep;  we  would  go  over  the  hill.  But  that  was  a 
wrong  estimate.  The  hill  was  high  and  it  was  steep. 
Up  and  up  and  up  on  second  speed,  then  back  to  first, 
tmtil  we  were  getting  on  a  level  with  the  clouds  them- 
selves. It  was  a  good  road  of  its  kind,  but  it  had 
no  end.  The  water  was  boiling  in  the  radiator 
— ^boiling  over.  We  must  stop  to  reduce  tempera- 
ture a  little  and  to  make  inquiries.  It  was  getting 
late — ^far  too  late  to  attempt  an  ascension  of  the  Alps. 

We  were  on  a  sort  of  bend,  and  there  was  a  peasant 
chalet  a  few  rods  ahead.  I  went  up  there,  and  from 
a  little  old  woman  in  short  skirts  got  a  tub  of  cool 
water,  also  some  information.  The  water  cooled  off 
our  engine,  and  the  information  our  enthusiasm  for 
further  travel  in  that  direction.  We  were  on  the 
road  to  Chateau  d'Oex,  a  hilltop  resort  for  winter 
sports. 

We  were  not  in  a  good  place  to  turn  around,  there 
on  the  edge  of  a  semi-precipice,  but  we  managed  to 
do  it,  and  started  back.  It  was  a  steep  descent.  I 
cut  off  the  spark  and  put  the  engine  on  low  speed, 
which  made  it  serve  as  a  brake,  but  it  required  the 
foot  and  emergency  brake  besides.  It  would  have 
been  a  poor  place  to  let  the  car  get  away.  Then  I 
began  to  worry  for  fear  the  hind  wheels  were  sliding, 
which  would  quickly  cut  through  the  tires.     I  don't 


MASHING  A  MUD  GUARD  125 

know  why  I  thought  I  could  see  them,  for  mud  guards 
make  that  quite  impossible.  Nevertheless  I  leaned 
out  and  looked  back.  It  was  a  poor  place  to  do 
that,  too.  We  were  hugging  a  wall  as  it  was,  and  one 
does  not  steer  well  looking  backward.  In  five 
seconds  we  gouged  into  the  wall,  and  the  front  guard 
on  that  side  crumpled  up  Hke  a  piece  of  tinfoil.  I 
had  to  get  out  and  pull  and  haul  it  before  there  was 
room  for  the  wheel  to  turn. 

I  never  felt  so  in  disgrace  in  my  life.  I  couldn't 
look  at  anything  but  the  disfigured  guard  all  the  way 
down  the  moimtain.  The  passengers  were  sorry 
and  tried  to  say  comforting  things,  but  that  guard 
was  fairly  shrieking  its  reproach.  What  a  thing  to 
go  home  with !    I  felt  that  I  could  never  live  it  down. 

Happily  it  was  dark  by  the  time  we  found  the  right 
road  and  were  drawing  into  Montreux — dark  and 
raining.  I  was  glad  it  was  dark,  but  the  rain  did  not 
help,  and  I  should  have  been  happier  if  the  streets 
had  not  been  full  of  dodging  pedestrians  and  vehicles 
and  blinding  lights.  The  streets  of  Montreux  are 
narrow  enough  at  best,  and  what  with  a  busy  tram 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  medley,  driving,  for  a  man 
already  in  disgrace,  was  not  real  recreation.  A  rail- 
way train  passed  us  just  below,  and  I  envied  the  en- 
gineer his  clear  right  of  way  and  fenced  track,  and 
decided  that  his  job  was  an  easy  one  by  comparison. 
One  used  to  hear  a  good  deal  about  the  dangers 
of  engine  driving,  and  no  doubt  an  engineer  would 
be  glad  to  turn  to  the  right  or  left  now  and  then  when 
meeting  a  train  head  on — a  thing,  however,  not 
likely  to  happen  often,  though  I  suppose  once  is  about 


126         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

enough.  All  the  same,  a  straight,  fenced  and  more 
or  less  exclusive  track  has  advantages,  and  I  wished 
I  had  one,  plunging,  weaving,  diving  through  the 
rain  as  we  were,  among  pedestrians,  cyclists,  trams, 
carriages,  other  motors,  and  the  Hke;  misled  by  the 
cross  lights  from  the  shops,  dazzled  by  oncoming  head- 
lights, blinded  by  rain  splashing  in  one's  face. 

It  is  no  great  distance  from  Montreux  to  Vevey, 
but  in  that  night  it  seemed  interminable.  And  what 
a  reHef  at  last  were  Vevey 's  quiet  streets,  what  a 
path  of  peace  the  semi-private  road  to  the  hotel, 
what  a  haven  of  bliss  the  seclusion  of  the  solid  little 
garage!  Next  morning  before  anybody  was  astir  I 
got  the  car  with  that  maltreated  mud  guard  to  the 
shop.  It  was  an  awful-looking  thing.  It  had  a 
real  expression.  It  looked  as  if  it  were  going  to  cry, 
I  told  the  repair  man  that  the  roads  had  been  wet 
and  the  car  had  skidded  into  a  wall.  He  did  not 
care  how  it  happened,  of  course,  but  I  did;  besides, 
it  was  easier  to  explain  it  that  way  in  French. 

It  took  a  week  to  repair  the  guard.  I  suppose 
they  had  to  straighten  it  out  with  a  steam  roller.  I 
don't  know,  but  it  looked  new  and  fine  when  it  came 
back,  and  I  felt  better.  The  bill  was  sixteen  francs. 
I  never  got  so  much  disgrace  before  at  such  a  reason- 
able figure. 


Chapter  XX 

JUST  FRENCH — THAT's   ALL 

DERHAPS  one  should  report  progress  in  learning 
■*■  French.  Of  course  Narcissa  and  the  Joy  were 
chattering  it  in  a  Uttle  while.  That  is  the  way  of 
childhood.  It  gives  no  serious  consideration  to  a 
great  matter  like  that,  but  just  lightly  accepts  it  like 
a  new  game  or  toy  and  plays  with  it  about  as  readily. 
It  is  quite  different  with  a  thoughtful  person  of  years 
and  experience.  In  such  case  there  is  need  of  system 
and  strategy.  I  selected  different  points  of  assault 
and  began  the  attack  from  all  of  them  at  once — 
private  lessons;  public  practice;  daily  grammar, 
writing  and  reading  in  seclusion;  readings  aloud  by 
persons  of  patience  and  pronimciation. 

I  hear  of  persons  picking  up  a  language — grown 
persons,  I  mean — but  if  there  are  such  persons  they 
are  not  of  my  species.  The  only  sort  of  picking  up 
I  do  is  the  kind  that  goes  with  a  shovel.  I  am  obliged 
to  excavate  a  language — to  loosen  up  its  materials, 
then  hoist  them  with  a  derrick.  My  progress  is 
geological  and  imhurried.  Still,  I  made  progress, 
of  a  kind,  and  after  putting  in  five  hours  a  day  for 
a  period  of  months  I  began  to  have  a  sense  of  results. 
I  began  to  realize  that  even  in  a  rapid-fire  conversa- 
tion the  sounds  were  not  all  exactly  alike,  and  to 
distinguish  scraps  of  meaning  in  conversations  not 


128         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

aimed  directly  at  me,  with  hard  and  painful  distinct- 
ness. I  began  even  to  catch  things  from  persons 
passing  on  the  street — to  distinguish  French  from 
patois — that  is  to  say,  I  knew,  when  I  imderstood 
any  of  it,  that  it  was  not  patois.  I  began  to  be  proud 
and  to  take  on  airs — always  a  dangerous  thing. 

One  day  at  the  pharmacy  I  heard  two  well-dressed 
men  speaking.  I  listened  intently,  but  could  not 
catch  a  word.  When  they  went  I  said  to  the  drug 
clerk — an  Englishman  who  spoke  French : 

"Strange  that  those  well-dressed  men  should  use 
patois." 

He  said:  "Ah,  but  that  was  not  patois — that  was 
very  choice  French — Parisian." 

I  followed  those  men  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  at 
a  safe  distance,  but  in  earshot,  and  we  thus  visited 
in  company  most  of  the  shops  and  sights  of  Vevey. 
If  I  could  have  followed  them  for  a  few  months  in 
that  way  it  is  possible — not  likely,  but  possible — 
that  their  conversation  might  have  meant  something 
to  me. 

Which,  by  the  way,  suggests  the  chief  difference 
between  an  acquired  and  an  inherited  language. 
An  acquired  language,  in  time,  comes  to  mean  some- 
thing, whereas  the  inherited  language  is  something. 
It  is  bred  into  the  fiber  of  its  possessor.  It  is  not  a 
question  of  considering  the  meaning  of  words — what 
they  convey;  they  do  not  come  stumbling  through 
any  anteroom  of  thought,  they  are  embodied  facts, 
forms,  sentiments,  leaping  from  one  inner  conscious- 
ness to  another,  instantaneously  and  without  fric- 
tion.    Probably   every   species  of   animation,   from 


JUST  FRENCH— THAT'S  ALL  129 

the  atom  to  the  elephant,  has  a  language — perfectly 
understood  and  sufficient  to  its  needs — some  system 
of  signs,  or  sniffs,  or  gnmts,  or  barks,  or  vibrations 
to  convey  quite  as  adequately  as  human  speech  the 
necessary  facts  and  conditions  of  life.  Persons, 
wise  and  otherwise,  will  tell  you  that  animals  have 
no  language;  but  when  a  dog  can  leam  even  many 
words  of  his  master's  tongue,  it  seems  rather  imkind 
to  deny  to  him  one  of  his  own.  Because  the  oyster 
does  not  go  shouting  around,  or  annoy  us  with  his 
twaddle,  does  not  mean  that  he  is  deprived  of  life's 
lingual  interchanges.  It  is  not  well  to  deny  speech 
to  the  mute,  inglorious  mollusk.  Remember  he  is 
our  ancestor. 

To  go  back  to  French :  I  have  acquired,  with  time 
and  heavy  effort,  a  sort  of  next-room  imderstanding 
of  that  graceful  speech — that  is  to  say,  it  is  about 
like  English  spoken  by  some  one  beyond  a  partition 
— a  fairly  thick  one.  By  listening  closely  I  get  the 
general  drift  of  conversation — a  confusing  drift 
sometimes,  mismeanings  that  generally  go  with 
eavesdropping.  At  times,  however,  the  partition 
seems  to  be  thinner,  and  there  comes  the  feeling  that 
if  somebody  would  just  come  along  and  open  a  door 
between  I  should  understand. 

It  is  truly  a  graceful  speech — the  French  tongue. 
Plain,  homely  things  of  life — so  bald,  and  bare,  and 
disheartening  in  the  Anglo-Saxon — are  less  imlovely 
in  the  French.  Indeed,  the  French  word  for  "rags" 
is  so  pretty  that  we  have  conferred  "chiffon"  on  one 
of  our  daintiest  fabrics.  But  in  the  grace  of  the 
language  lies  also  its  weakness.     It  does  not  rise  to 


I30        THE  CARr  THAT  1  WENT  iABR;(MD 

the  supreme  utterances-  '  J)^hs^'h&sti  ipeading-  this 
bible  texts  on  the  toirtbst^ries  ari;  the  flittl^  cemetery 
of  Chardonne.  * '  Vtierfiid !  le?^-!  >  ynum  ■  -  berger,  >  *  ;  cam 
hardly  rank  in  loftiness?  iwith;"  The  Jx)fdf  .is  ni3r;fihep4 
herd,"  nor  *'Que  votr9<^ieim(ne  senfyroublepointV  with 
"Let  not  your  heart  be:titnil:^d.",  Ck"»;afc<ajiy}jra!^ 
can  never  bring  myself sto  thinkisw.i!."^'  ;o>:.  rv^iif  o  • 
Any  language  is  hkrdienough  ta  leam^bristling 
with  difficulties  which  rseem  nbedless,  even  offensively 
silly  to  the  student.'  .We 'Complain'  of  the  genderis 
and  silent  letters  of  .''thers  French,  but  when  one's 
native  tongue  spells  ^"'VcotigH"  andrrcills  it  *:^ccrf;:! 
"rough"  and  calls  it  *^ruff,"j;^^siough"/and:  calls  it 
"slu"  or  "sluff,"  by  choice,  and  " plough '^  and  i is 
unable  to  indicate  adequately*  without .  signs  ■  Just 
how  it  should  be  pronoimced;  ^he  is  not  in  a  position 
to  make  invidious  compdrisce&s.'  jl  Wonder  what  a 
French  student  really  thinks  of  n  those  words^i  He 
has  rules  for  his  own  sotihd.  Srariations,  iakid  carefully 
indicates  them  with  little*  signs.  We 'have !  sotmd 
signs,  too,  but  an  English  page-printed;  with  aE  the 
necessary  marks  is  a  causes  iori 'anguish.  1  was  once 
given  a  primary  reader  prihted-in  that  way,  'and  at 
sight  of  it  ran  screaming^^:'t0^fin;^^mother.  '  So  we 
leave  off  all  signs  in  Engli^iand/lrust'inJ  God  fof 
results.  It  is  hard  to  be  fattojftanerican' learning 
French,  but  I  would  rather  be  ^^^itheki  siFt&ichi 
man  learning  American.  lA  srfl  r'  i^nr:roi-:.-jiiarb 

.bsabnl     .donoi'^l  odi  n't 

T  ?Jt  08'..  Jjsil  'y^Ru-^asd 


aAu>idA    iWaW  TAHT   ^/\J   3; 

-oiq  oi  i:£vrmo  di'rf<f  z^nii'jqiBO  Had  ibil^  tj, 
boIiBnaoji    auoiabaoq    '2i3ajji    edi    moii   rasn. 
'jsoiij  liJSY/   Jsirm   aao   '{iioqa   Y^J   ^cf  oT     .a 
,d§ni§39l  ae  rfoxra  .agninirnh)  Tjrll<j  mBtiao  osIb  ;890- 
.rlo^TBrn  o^  liBoa  bri.^^^l^^cX^b  Y^-iaqoiq  ,83do30i6 
duodJiw  biiori<i  lolnh/  oiIj   'io'in^    {IIboi  ionnao  anO 
.vioboa  79;tnr77  boog  WP  cpfi6fB  lo   .anoiJBiooob  saorl^ 
'io  lisq  /i  vnifij  jauxn  vnO     .>i>i>  qiIj  yiB  siaiiJ  nodT 

af^y^ir^ll)  fitj^fiiplqtl^fe^fig^  '^d(^i)i»immh^T/fd 

Bttt.this  witerest.j[a;iiidrfe»t^7Ttjt.-^si)9/©Ji  ^m^n§§ 

tppifi:c^.<5(9Bvjer.sati(»kjiviJoB  Iboi  a  9110  sminoa  oi  bnn 
It  is  not  like  that  in  Switzerland,  Wii^^ii^)^^ 
ift^a,T^gi(^>«^aS^?iwl^l«ijj3ft^I!ye«y/;WJ3B4li(s^  a 
thrill  through;  th)^:4welfeibTf»^M jC^ijfpr^go^-n&ni^^ig 
t^ jS^^SS  hills.;  ;lKfeen:th$  S/^^mXi  (rfoW^^cigifll  ^7d 
<»Mjg^ate4  :la^^; t^^Sipos^seB^jl^j d^j^jlaj^do^x 

gipnfi.pf.wintef.£  owv/  y^^^T     .:r^oTl  ^nol  orb  io  a-^oi 

^h^Ijtljiclsn^Sv^j  simw  M:ttMo¥i^ri(Q^j^nr^fi?!tSvrjt|]p 
Cpllditif)p^.j'«fecithfo jif^ou5 j  c?5$r^¥Pti:  \tM  ■  B^?ogrft5^ j^ 

names  of  i}<3iiXt^rtWo^jdFhet.Spc^IB^j/ii^iI0?^gr§?^ 
Wi^hfrft  ^cfe$<iule[p^(j^he:fAf^«A  vHft^l&[pyi)hsh;[|:iieir 
Jj«Rt^iMt|r40t4JOffis-7ttheil''icoafiting!£th9y;.  c^/ifc  *  'i\m- 
mgc*dso$t !«)»  eurKlig,  ,$katiiig,,f^-mg]:B?f?Pi9SM>r 
dfttigjHfSv  and  inddentajly  mention  theii-  to^R^*  >  -13^ 


132    THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

also  cover  their  hall  carpetings  with  canvas  to  pro- 
tect them  from  the  lugers*  ponderous  hobnailed 
shoes.  To  be  truly  sporty  one  must  wear  those 
shoes;  also  certain  other  trimmings,  such  as  leggings, 
breeches,  properly  cut  coat,  cap  and  scarf  to  match. 
One  cannot  really  enjoy  the  winter  sports  without 
these  decorations,  or  keep  in  good  winter  society. 
Then  there  are  the  skis.  One  must  carry  a  pair  of 
skis  to  be  complete.  They  must  be  as  tall  as  the 
owner  can  reach,  and  when  he  puts  them  on  his  legs 
will  branch  out  and  act  independently,  each  on  its 
own  accoimt,  and  he  will  become  a  house  divided 
against  itself,  with  the  usual  results.  So  it  is  better 
to  carry  them,  and  look  handsome  and  graceful, 
and  to  confine  one's  real  activities  to  the  more  famil- 
iar things. 

Our  hotel  was  divided  on  winter  sports.  Not  all 
went  in  for  it,  but  those  who  did  went  in  considerably. 
We  had  a  Dutch  family  from  Sumatra,  where  they 
had  been  tobacco  planting  for  a  number  of  years, 
and  in  that  tropic  land  had  missed  the  white  robust 
joys  of  the  long  frost.  They  were  a  young,  superb 
couple,  but  their  children,  who  had  never  known  the 
cold,  were  slender  products  of  an  enervating  land. 
They  had  never  seen  snow  and  they  shared  their 
parents'  enthusiasm  in  the  winter  prospect.  The 
white  drifts  on  the  moimtaintops  made  them  marvel; 
the  first  light  fall  we  had  made  them  wild. 

That  Dutch  family  went  in  for  the  winter  sports. 
You  never  saw  anything  like  it.  Their  plans  and 
their  outfit  became  the  chief  interest  of  the  hotel. 
They  engaged  far  in  advance  their  rooms  at  Chateau 


WE  LUGE  133 

d'Oex,  one  of  the  best  known  resorts,  and  they  daily 
accumulated  new  and  startling  articles  of  costume 
to  make  their  experience  more  perfect.  One  day 
they  would  all  have  new  shoes  of  wonderful  thick- 
ness and  astonishing  nails.  Then  it  would  be  gorgeous 
new  scarfs  and  caps,  then  sweaters,  then  skates,  then 
snowshoes,  then  skis,  and  so  on  down  the  hst.  Some- 
times they  would  organize  a  drill  in  full  uniform. 
But  the  children  were  less  enthusiastic  then.  Those 
slim-legged  little  folks  could  hardly  walk,  weighted 
with  several  poimds  of  heavy  hobnailed  shoes,  and 
they  complained  bitterly  at  this  requirement.  Their 
parents  did  not  miss  the  humor  of  the  situation, 
and  I  think  enjoyed  these  preparations  and  incidental 
discomforts  for  the  sake  of  pleasure  as  much  as  they 
could  have  enjoyed  the  sports  themselves,  when 
the  time  came.  We  gave  them  a  hearty  send-off, 
when  reports  arrived  that  the  snow  conditions  at 
Chateau  d'Oex  were  good,  and  if  they  had  as  good 
a  time  as  we  wished  them,  and  as  they  gave  us  in 
their  preparations,  they  had  nothing  to  regret. 

As  the  winter  deepened  the  winter  sport  sentiment 
grew  in  oiu:  midst,  imtil  finally  in  January  we  got  a 
taste  of  it  ourselves.  We  found  that  we  could  take 
a  Httle  moimtain  road  to  a  point  in  the  hills  called 
Les  Avants,  then  a  funicular  to  a  still  higher  point, 
and  thus  be  in  the  white  whirl  for  better  or  worse, 
without  being  distinctly  of  it,  so  to  speak.  We  could 
not  be  of  it,  of  cotirse,  without  the  costumes,  and  we 
did  not  see  how  we  cotdd  afford  these  and  also  certain 
new  adjimcts  which  the  car  would  need  in  the  spring. 
So  we  went  primarily  as  spectators — that  is,  the  older 


134         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

half  of  the  family.    The  children  had  their  own 
winter  sports  at  school. 

We  telephoned  to  the  Son  Loup  hotel  at  the  top 
of  the  last  funicular,  and  got  an  early  start.  You 
can  see  Son  Loup  from  the  hotel  steps  in  Vevey,  but 
it  takes  hours  to  get  to  it.  The  train  goes  up,  and 
up,  along  gorges  and  abysses,  where  one  looks  down 
on  the  tops  of  Christmas  trees,  gloriously  mantled 
in  snow.  Then  by  and  by  you  are  at  Les  Avants 
and  in  the  midst  of  everything,  except  the  ski-ing, 
which  is  still  higher  up,  at  Son  Loup. 

We  got  off  at  Les  Avants  and  picked  our  way 
across  the  main  street  among  flying  sleds  of  every 
pattern,  from  the  single,  sturdy  Httle  bulldog  luge 
tp.  the  great  polly-straddle  bob,  and  from  the  safe 
Ysaflt^ge  of  a  cafe  window  observed  the  slide. 
,TiJt£j«8§  divided  into  three  parts — one  track  for  bob- 
tleddtecJjTrJ^e  wild  riders — a  track  for  the  more  daring 
IJCkg^  jidfej^i  and  a  track  for  fat  folks,  old  folks,  and 
fsfeiWiresuG^^G^fiainly  they  were  having  a  good  time. 
Their  ajj9^j8^ngpd  from  five  to  seventy-five,  and  they 
W^»ix^8  (^ttJ^^"^.  together.  Now  and  then  there 
eaiB^  fading  u^i(^uamong  them  a  big  native  sled, 
bfeje^l5wi^3^y£0f  ym>d,  from  somewhere  far  up  in 
fe«ifeili$iifi]^I.W?6  8k-ip^ect  day— no  cold,  no  wind, 
pQiihngh)t'St^,lfeF  ^i<3f?^ity  we  were  up  in  the  clouds 
7375^ce»Qf^cwhi^^j¥ieikdf  lYBP^r^^was  everywhere. 
bl^  HSffi.  ^BSf^  6ffQ§§e,4r  ^^e  track,  entered  a  won- 
4efrMizSTmYfi(g^de%^.^hm&¥yg  to  a  hotel,  and  came 
t^i;ftlJt$ka^QfWijji¥ll?i^i(?ftSi6Ii9^d  men  and  fat  men 
Igfgff^  ^iijjJipgi  b-QwKfig^^ii^iaogS^e  where  you  try  to 
4jte  «i50ct  ?rfiStOQ^c4ef^^^sk^from  one  end  of  the 


"You  Can  See  Son  LotF  from  the  Hotel  Sieps  in  Vevev,  bi  i  Ir  Takes 
Hours  to  Get  to  It  " 


WE  LUGE  135 

pond  to  the  other  and  make  it  stop  somewhere  and 
coimt  something.  Each  man  is  armed  with  a  big 
broom  to  keep  the  ice  clean  before  and  after  his  Httle 
duck.  We  watched  them  a  good  while  and  I  cannot 
imagine  anything  more  impressive  than  to  see  a  fat 
old  man  with  a  broom  padding  and  puffing  along  by 
the  side  of  his  little  fat  stone  duck,  feverishly  sweep- 
ing the  snow  away  in  front  of  it,  so  that  it  will  get 
somewhere  and  coimt.  When  I  inadvertently  laughed 
I  could  see  that  I  was  not  popular.  All  were  English 
there — all  but  a  few  Americans  who  pretended  to 
be  English. 

Beyond  the  curling  pond  was  a  skating  pond,  part 
of  it  given  over  to  an  international  hockey  match,  but 
somehow  these  things  did  not  excite  us.  We  went 
back  to  our  caf6  comer  to  watch  the  luging  and  to 
have  limcheon.  Then  the  lugers  came  stamping 
in  for  refreshments,  and  their  costimies  interested 
us.  Especially  their  shoes.  Even  the  Dutch  family 
had  brought  home  no  such  wonders  as  some  of  these. 
They  were  of  appalling  size,  and  some  of  them  had 
heavy  iron  claws  or  toes  such  as  one  might  imagine 
would  belong  to  some  infernal  race.  These,  of  course, 
were  to  dig  into  the  snow  behind,  to  check  or  guide 
the  flying  sled.  They  were  useful,  no  doubt,  but 
when  one  saw  them  on  the  feet  of  a  tall,  shm  girl  the 
effect  was  peculiar. 

By  the  time  we  had  finished  luncheon  we  had  grown 

brave.     We  said  we  would  luge — modestly,  but  with 

proper  spirit.     There  were  sleds  to  let,  by  an  old 

Frenchman,  at  a  little  booth  across  the  way,  and  we 

looked  over  his  assortment  and  picked  a  small  bob 
10 


136        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

with  a  steering  attachment,  because  to  guide  that 
would  be  like  driving  a  car.  Then  we  hauled  it  up 
the  fat  folks*  slide  a  Uttle  way  and  came  down,  hoo- 
hooing  a  warning  to  those  ahead  in  the  regulation 
way.  We  did  this  several  times,  liking  it  more  and 
more.  We  got  braver  and  tried  the  next  sHde,  liking 
it  still  better.  Then  we  got  reckless  and  crossed 
into  the  bobsled  scoot  and  tried  that.  Oh,  fine! 
We  did  not  go  to  the  top — we  did  not  know  then 
how  far  the  top  was;  but  we  went  higher  each  time, 
liking  it  more  and  more,  until  we  got  up  to  a  place 
where  the  sleds  stood  out  at  a  perpendicular  right 
angle  as  they  swirled  aroimd  a  sudden  circle  against 
a  constructed  ice  barrier.  This  looked  dangerous, 
but  getting  more  and  more  reckless,  we  decided  to 
go  even  above  that. 

We  hauled  our  sled  up  and  up,  constantly  meeting 
bobsleds  coming  down  and  hearing  the  warning 
hoo-hoo-hooing  of  still  others  descending  from  the 
opaque  upper  mist.  Still  we  climbed,  dragging  our 
sled,  meeting  bob  after  bob,  also  loads  of  hay  and 
wood,  and  finally  some  walking  girls  who  told  us  that 
the  top  of  the  sHde  was  at  Son  Loup — that  is,  at  the 
top  of  the  funicidar,  some  miles  away. 

We  understood  then;  all  those  bobsledders  took 
their  sleds  up  by  funicular  and  coasted  down.  We 
stopped  there  and  got  on  our  sled.  The  grade  was 
very  gradual  at  first,  and  we  moved  slowly — so 
slowly  that  a  nice  old  lady  who  happened  along  gave 
us  a  push.  We  kept  moving  after  that.  We  crossed 
a  road,  roimded  a  turn,  leaped  a  railway  track  and 
struck  into  the  straightway,  going  like  a  streak.    We 


WE  LUGE  137 

had  thought  it  a  g(X)d  distance  to  the  sharp  turn, 
with  its  right-angle  wall  of  ice,  but  we  were  there 
with  unbeUevable  suddenness.  Then  in  a  second 
we  were  on  the  wall,  standing  straight  out  into  space; 
then  in  another  we  had  shot  out  of  it;  but  our  curve 
seemed  to  continue. 

There  was  a  little  barnyard  just  there  and  an  empty- 
hay  sled — placed  there  on  purpose,  I  think  now.  At 
any  rate,  the  owner  was  there  watching  the  perform- 
ance. I  think  he  had  been  expecting  us.  When  all 
motion  ceased  he  untelescoped  us,  and  we  limped 
about  and  discussed  with  him  in  native  terms  how 
much  we  ought  to  pay  for  the  broken  nmner  on  his 
hay  sled,  and  minor  damages.  It  took  five  francs 
to  cure  the  broken  nmner,  which  I  believe  had  been 
broken  all  the  time  and  was  just  set  there  handy  to 
catch  inadvertent  persons  like  ourselves.  We  fin- 
ished our  slide  then  and  handed  in  our  sled,  which 
the  old  Frenchman  looked  at  fondly  and  said:  "Tris 
bon — tr^s  vite."  He  did  not  know  how  nearly  its 
speed  had  come  to  landing  us  in  the  newspapers. 

We  took  the  fimicular  to  Son  Loup,  and  at  the 
top  found  ourselves  in  what  seemed  atmospheric 
milk.  We  stood  at  the  hotel  steps  and  watched  the 
swift  coasters  pass.  Every  other  moment  they 
flashed  by,  from  a  white  mystery  above — a  vision  of 
faces,  a  call  of  voices — to  the  inclosing  mystery  again. 
It  was  b'ke  life;  but  not  entirely,  for  they  did  not 
pass  to  silence.  The  long,  winding  hiU  far  below 
was  full  of  their  calls — muffled  by  the  mist — their 
hoo-hoo-hoos  of  warning  to  those  ahead  and  to 
those  who  followed.     But  it   was  suggestive,   too. 


138         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

It  was  as  if  the  lost  were  down  there  in  that  cold 
whiteness. 

The  fog  grew  thicker,  more  opaque,  as  the  day- 
waned.  It  was  an  impalpable  wall.  We  followed 
the  road  from  the  hotel,  still  higher  into  its  dense 
obscurity.  When  a  tree  grew  near  enough  to  the 
road  for  us  to  see  it,  we  beheld  an  astonishing  sight. 
The  mist  had  gathered  about  the  evergreen  branches 
until  they  were  draped,  festooned,  fairly  clotted 
with  pendulous  frost  embroidery. 

We  had  been  told  that  there  was  ski-ing  up  there 
and  we  were  anxious  to  see  it,  but  for  a  time  we  foimd 
only  blankness  and  dead  silence.  Then  at  last — 
far  and  faint,  but  growing  presently  more  distinct 
— we  heard  a  light  soimd,  a  movement,  a  "swish — 
swish — swirl" — somewhere  in  the  mist  at  our  right, 
coming  closer  and  closer,  imtil  it  seemed  right  upon 
us,  and  strangely  mysterious,  there  being  no  visible 
cause.  We  waited  until  a  form  appeared,  no,  grew, 
materialized  from  the  intangible — so  imperceptibly, 
so  gradually,  that  at  first  we  could  not  be  sure  of  it. 
Then  the  outlines  became  definite,  then  distinct; 
an  athletic  feUow  on  skis  maneuvered  across  the 
road,  angled  down  the  opposite  slope,  "swish — 
swish — swirl" — checking  himself  every  other  stroke, 
for  the  descent  was  steep — ^faded  into  imknown 
deeps  below — the  whiteness  had  shut  him  in.  We 
listened  while  the  swish — swish  grew  fainter,  and  in 
the  gathering  evening  we  felt  that  he  had  disappeared 
from  the  world  into  ravines  of  dark  forests  and  cold 
enchantments  from  which  there  could  be  no  escape. 

We  climbed  higher  and  met  dashing  sleds  now  and 


WE  LUGE  139 

then,  but  saw  no  other  ski-ers  that  evening.  Next 
morning,  however,  we  found  them  up  there,  gliding 
about  in  that  region  of  vapors,  appearing  and  dis- 
solving like  cinema  figures,  their  voices  coming  to 
us  muffled  and  imreal  in  tone.  I  left  the  road  and 
followed  down  into  a  sort  of  basin  which  seemed  to 
be  a  favorite  place  for  ski  practice.  I  felt  exactly 
as  if  I  were  in  a  ghostly  aquarium. 

I  was  not  much  taken  with  ski-ing,  as  a  whole.  I 
noticed  that  even  the  experts  fell  down  a  good  many 
times  and  were  not  especially  graceful  getting  up. 

But  I  approve  of  coasting  under  the  new  condi- 
tions— i.  e.,  with  funicular  assistance.  In  my  day 
coasting  was  work — ^you  had  to  tug  and  sweat  up  a 
long  slippery  incline  for  a  very  brief  pleasure.  Keats 
(I  think  it  was  Keats,  or  was  it  Carolyn  Wells?)  in 
his,  or  her,  well-known  and  justly  celebrated  poem 
wrote : 

It  takes  a  long  time  to  make  the  climb, 
And  a  minute  or  less  to  come  down; 

But  that  poetry  is  out  of  date — in  Switzerland. 
It  no  longer  takes  a  long  time  to  make  the  climb,  and 
you  do  it  in  liixury.  You  sit  in  a  comfortable  seat 
and  your  sled  is  loaded  on  an  especially  built  car. 
Switzerland  is  the  most  funiculated  country  in  the 
world;  its  hills  are  full  of  these  semi-perpendicular 
tracks.  They  make  you  shudder  when  you  moimt 
them  for  the  first  time,  and  I  think  I  never  should 
be  able  to  discuss  frivolous  matters  during  an  ascent, 
as  I  have  seen  some  do.  Still,  one  gets  hardened, 
I  suppose. 


I40         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

They  are  cheap.  You  get  commutation  tickets 
for  very  little,  and  all  day  long  coasters  are  loading 
their  sleds  on  the  little  shelved  flatcar,  piling  them- 
selves into  the  coach,  then  at  the  top  snatching  off 
their  sleds  to  go  whooping  away  down  the  long  track 
to  the  lower  station.  Coasters  get  killed  now  and 
then,  and  are  always  getting  damaged  in  one  way 
and  another;  for  the  track  skirts  deep  declivities, 
and  there  are  bound  to  be  slips  in  steering,  and  col- 
lisions. We  might  have  stayed  longer  and  tried  it 
again,  but  we  were  still  limping  from  our  first  experi- 
ment. Besides,  we  were  not  dressed  for  the  real 
thing.  Dress  may  not  make  the  man,  but  it  makes 
the  sportsman. 


Pan  II 

MOTORING  THROUGH 

THE  GOLDEN  AGE 


Chapter  I 

THE  NEW  PLAN 

Out  with  the  breaking  out  of  the  primroses  and 
^^  the  hint  of  a  pale-green  beading  along  certain 
branches  in  the  hotel  garden,  the  desire  to  be  going, 
and  seeing,  and  doing;  to  hear  the  long  drowse  of 
the  motor  and  look  out  over  the  revolving  distances; 
to  drop  down  magically,  as  it  were,  on  this  environ- 
ment and  that — began  to  trickle  and  prickle  a  little 
in  the  blood,  to  Hght  pale  memories  and  color  new 
plans. 

We  could  not  go  for  a  good  while  yet.  For  spring 
is  really  spring  in  Switzerland — not  advance  install- 
ments of  summer  mixed  with  left-overs  from  winter, 
but  a  fairly  steady  condition  of  damp  coolness — 
sunHght  that  is  not  hot,  showers  that  are  not  cold 
— the  snow  on  the  mountainsides  advancing  and 
retreating — sometimes,  in  the  night,  getting  as  low 
down  as  Chardonne,  which  is  less  than  half  an  hour's 
walk  above  the  hotel. 

There  is  something  curiously  unreal  about  this 
Swiss  springtime.  We  saw  the  trees  break  out  into 
leaf,  the  fields  grow  vividly  green  and  fresh,  and  then 
become  gay  with  flowers,  without  at  all  feeling  the 
reason  for  such  a  mood.  In  America  such  a  change 
is  wrought  by  hot  days — cold  ones,  too,  perhaps, 
but  certainly  hot  ones;   we  have  sweltered  in  April, 


144         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

though  we  have  sometimes  snowballed  in  May. 
The  Swiss  spring  was  different.  Three  months  of 
gradual,  almost  imnoticeable,  mellowing  kept  us 
from  getting  excited  and  gave  us  plenty  of  time  to 
plan. 

That  was  good  for  us — the  trip  we  had  in  mind 
now  was  no  mere  matter  of  a  few  days'  journey,  from 
a  port  to  a  destination ;  it  was  to  be  a  wandering  that 
would  stretch  over  the  hills  and  far  away,  through 
some  thousands  of  kilometers  and  ten  weeks  of  time. 
That  was  about  all  we  had  planned  concerning  it, 
except  that  we  were  going  back  into  France,  and  at 
one  point  in  those  weeks  we  expected  to  touch  Cher- 
bourg and  pick  up  a  missing  member  of  the  family 
who  would  be  dropped  there  by  a  passing  ship.  We 
studied  the  maps  a  good  deal,  and  at  odd  times  I 
tinkered  with  the  car  and  wondered  how  many  things 
would  happen  to  it  before  we  completed  the  long 
circle,  and  if  I  would  retiim  only  partially  crippled 
or  a  hopeless  heap  of  damage  and  explanations. 
Never  mind — the  future  holds  sorrow  enough  for 
all  of  us.     Let  us  antidpate  only  its  favors. 

So  we  planned.  We  sent  for  a  road  map  of  France 
divided  into  four  sections,  showing  also  western 
Germany  and  Switzerland.  We  spread  it  out  on 
the  table  and  traced  a  variety  of  routes  to  Cherbourg ; 
by  Germany,  by  Paris  direct,  by  a  long  loop  down 
into  southern  France.  We  favored  the  last-named 
course.  We  had  missed  some  things  in  the  Midi — 
N!mes,  Pont  du  Gard,  Orange — and  then  there  was 
still  a  quality  in  the  air  which  made  us  feel  that  the 
south  would  furnish  better  motor  weather  in  May. 


THE  NEW  PLAN  145 

Ah,  me !  There  is  no  place  quite  like  the  Provence. 
It  is  rather  dusty,  and  the  people  are  drowsy  and 
sometimes  noisy,  and  there  are  mosquitoes  there, 
and  maybe  other  unpleasant  things;  but  in  the  Hght 
chill  of  a  Swiss  spring  day  there  comes  a  memory  of 
rich  mellowness  and  September  roadsides,  with  gold 
and  purple  vintage  ripening  in  the  sim,  that  lights 
and  warms  the  soul.  We  would  start  south,  we  said. 
We  were  not  to  reach  Cherbourg  vmtil  Jime.  Plenty 
of  time  for  the  north,  then,  and  later. 

We  discussed  matters  of  real  importance — that  is 
to  say,  expenses.     We  said  we  would  give  ourselves 
an  object  lesson,  this  time,  in  what  could  really  be 
done  in  motor  economies.     On  our  former  trip  we 
had  now  and  again  limched  by  the  roadside,  with 
pleasing  results.     This  time  we  would  always  do  it. 
Before,  we  had  stopped  a  few  times  at  small  inns  in 
villages  instead  of  seeking  out  hotels  in  the  larger 
towns.    Those  few  experiments  had  been  altogether 
satisfactory,   both   as   to   price   and   entertainment. 
Perhaps  this  had  been  merely  our  good  fortune,  but 
we  were  willing  to  take  further  chances.    From  the 
fifty  francs  a  day  required  for  our  party  of  four  we 
might  subtract  a  franc  or  so  and  still  be  nourished, 
body  and  soul.     Thus  we  planned.    When  it  was 
pleasant  we  enjoyed  shopping  for  our  roadside  outfit; 
a  basket,  square,  and  of  no  great  size;   some  agate 
cups  and  saucers;    some  knives  and  forks;    also  an 
alcohol   stove,   the  kind   that  compacts  itself  into 
very  small  compass,   alimiinimi,  and  very  light — I 
hope  they  have  them  elsewhere  than  in  Switzerland, 
for  their  usefulness  is  above  price. 


Chapter  II 

THE  NEW  START 

IT  was  the  first  week  in  May  when  we  started — ^the 
5th,  in  fact.  The  car  had  been  thoroughly  over- 
hauled, and  I  had  spent  a  week  personally  on  it, 
scraping  and  polishing,  so  that  we  might  make  a  fine 
appearance  as  we  stood  in  front  of  the  hotel  in  the 
bright  morning  sunlight  where  our  fellow  guests 
would  gather  to  see  us  glide  away. 

I  have  had  many  such  showy  dreams  as  that,  and 
they  have  turned  out  pretty  much  alike.  We  did 
not  start  in  the  bright  morning.  It  was  not  bright. 
It  was  raining,  and  it  continued  to  rain  until  after 
eleven  o'clock.  By  that  time  our  fellow  guests  were 
not  on  hand.  They  had  got  tired  and  gone  to  secluded 
comers,  or  to  their  rooms,  or  drabbling  into  the  vil- 
lage. When  the  sun  finally  came  out  only  a  straggler 
or  two  appeared.     It  was  too  bad. 

We  glided  away,  but  not  very  far.  I  remembered, 
as  we  were  passing  through  the  town,  that  it  might 
be  well  to  take  some  funds  along,  so  we  drove  around 
to  the  bank  to  see  what  we  could  raise  in  that  line. 
We  couldn't  raise  anything — not  a  centime.  It  was 
just  past  twelve  o'clock  and,  according  to  Swiss 
custom,  the  bank  was  closed  for  two  hours.  Not  a 
soul  was  there — the  place  was  locked,  curtained, 
barred.    Only  dynamite  woidd  have  opened  it. 


THE  NEW  START  147 

We  consulted.  We  had  some  suppKes  in  our 
basket  to  eat  by  the  roadside  as  soon  as  we  were  well 
into  the  country.  Very  good;  we  would  drive  to 
some  quiet  back  street  in  the  suburbs  and  eat  them 
now.  We  had  two  hours  to  wait — we  need  feel  no 
sense  of  hurry.  So  we  drove  down  into  Vevey  la 
Tour  and,  behind  an  old  arch,  where  friends  would 
not  be  Hkely  to  notice  us,  we  sat  in  the  car  and  ate 
our  first  limcheon,  with  a  smocked  boy  for  audience 
— a  boy  with  a  basket  on  his  arm,  probably  delaying 
the  machinery  of  his  own  household  to  study  the 
working  economies  of  ours.  Afterward  we  drove 
back  to  the  bank,  got  our  finances  arranged,  slipped 
down  a  side  street  to  the  lake-front,  and  fled  away 
toward  Montreux  without  looking  behind  us.  It 
was  not  at  all  the  departure  we  had  planned. 

It  rained  again  at  Montreux,  but  the  sun  was  shin- 
ing at  ChiUon,  and  the  lake  was  blue.  Through 
openings  in  the  trees  we  could  see  the  picture  towns 
of  Territet,  Montreux,  Clarens,  and  Vevey,  skirting 
the  shore — the  white  steamers  plying  up  and  down; 
the  high-perched  hotels,  half  lost  in  cloudland,  and 
we  thought  that  our  travels  could  hardly  provide  a 
more  charming  vision  than  that.  Then  we  were  in 
Villeneuve,  then  in  the  open  flat  fields  of  the  Rhone 
Valley,  where,  for  Europe,  the  roads  are  poor;  on 
through  a  jolty  village  to  a  bridge  across  the  Rhone, 
and  so  along  the  south  shore  by  Bouveret,  to  St. 
Gingolph,  where  we  exhibited  our  papers  at  the 
Swiss  douane,  crossed  a  little  brook,  and  were  again 
in  France.  We  were  making  the  circuit  of  the  lake, 
you  see.    All  winter  we  had  looked  across  to  that 


148         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

shore,  with  its  villages  and  snow-mantled  hiUs.    We 
would  now  see  it  at  close  range. 

We  realized  one  thing  immediately.  Swiss  roads 
are  not  bad  roads,  by  any  means,  but  French  roads 
are  better.  In  fact,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that 
there  is  nothing  more  perfect  in  this  world  than  a 
French  road.  I  have  touched  upon  this  subject 
before,  and  I  am  likely  to  dwell  upon  it  imduly,  for 
it  always  excites  me.  Those  roads  are  a  perfect 
network  in  France,  and  I  can  never  cease  marveling 
at  the  money  and  labor  they  must  have  cost.  They 
are  so  hard  and  smooth,  so  carefully  graded  and 
curved,  so  beautifully  shaded,  so  scrupulously  repaired 
— ^it  would  seem  that  half  the  wealth  and  effort  of 
France  must  be  expended  on  her  highways.  The 
road  from  St.  Gingolph  was  wider  than  the  one  we 
had  left  behind.  It  was  also  a  better  road  and  in 
better  repair.  It  was  a  floor.  Here  and  there  we 
came  to  groups  of  men  working  at  it,  though  it  needed 
nothing,  that  we  could  see.  It  skirted  the  moim- 
tains  and  lake-front.  We  could  look  across  to  our 
own  side  now — to  Vevey  and  those  other  towns,  and 
the  cloud-climbing  hotels,  all  bright  in  the  sunshine. 

We  passed  a  nameless  village  or  two  and  were  at 
Evian,  a  watering-place  which  has  grown  in  fame  and 
wealth  these  later  years — a  resort  of  fine  residences 
and  handsome  hotels — not  our  kind  of  hotels,  but 
plenty  good  enough  for  persons  whose  tastes  have 
not  been  refined  down  to  our  budget  and  daily  pro- 
gram of  economies. 

It  was  at  Thonon — quaint  old  Thonon,  once  a 
residence  of  the  Counts  and  Dukes  of  Savoy — that 


THE  NEW  START  149 

we  found  a  hostelry  of  our  kind.  It  had  begun 
raining  again,  and,  besides,  it  was  well  toward  evening. 
We  puUed  up  in  front  of  the  H6tel  d'Europe,  one 
of  the  least  extravagant  of  the  red-book  hostelries, 
and  I  went  in.  The  "Bureau,"  as  the  French  call 
the  office,  was  not  very  inviting.  It  was  rather 
dingy  and  somber,  and  nobody  was  there.  I  found 
a  bell  and  rang  it  and  a  woman  appeared — not  a 
very  attractive  woman,  but  a  kindly  person  who 
could  understand  my  "Vous  avez  des  chambres?*' 
which  went  a  good  ways.  She  had  "des  chambres** 
and  certainly  no  fault  could  be  found  with  those. 
They  were  of  immense  size,  the  beds  were  soft,  smooth, 
and  spotlessly  clean.  Yes,  there  was  a  garage,  free. 
I  went  back  with  my  report.  The  dinner  might  be 
bad,  we  said,  but  it  would  only  be  for  once — ^besides, 
it  was  raining  harder.  So  we  went  in,  and  when  the 
shower  passed  we  took  a  walk  along  the  lake-front, 
where  there  is  an  old  chateau,  once  the  home  of 
royalty,  now  the  storehouse  of  plaster  or  something, 
and  we  stopped  to  look  at  a  public  laimdry — a  square 
stone  pool  under  a  shed,  where  the  women  get  down 
on  their  knees  and  place  the  garments  on  a  board 
and  scrub  them  with  a  brush,  while  the  cold  water 
from  the  mountains  runs  in  and  out  and  is  never 
warmed  at  all. 

Returning  by  another  way,  we  found  about  the 
smallest  church  in  the  world,  built  at  one  comer  of 
the  old  domain.  A  woman  came  with  a  key  and 
let  us  into  it  and  we  sat  in  the  little  chairs  and 
inspected  the  tiny  altar  and  all  the  sacred  things 
with  especial  interest,  for  one  of  the  purposes  of  our 


ISO        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

pilgrimages  was  to  see  churches — the  great  cathedrals 
of  France.  Across  from  the  chiirch  stood  a  ruined 
tower,  matted  with  vines,  the  remains  of  a  tenth- 
century  chateau — already  old  when  the  one  on  the 
lake-front  was  new.  We  speak  hghtly  of  a  few  cen- 
turies more  or  less,  but,  after  all,  there  was  a  goodly 
period  between  the  tenth  and  the  fourteenth,  a 
period  long  enough  to  cover  American  history  from 
Montezuma  to  date.  These  old  towers,  once  filled 
with  life  and  voices  and  movement,  are  fascinating 
things.  We  stood  looking  at  this  one  while  the  dusk 
gathered.  Then  it  began  sprinkling  again  and  it 
was  dinner  time. 

So  we  returned  to  the  hotel  and  I  may  as  well  say 
here,  at  once,  that  I  do  not  beheve  there  are  any 
bad  dinners  in  France.  I  have  forgotten  what  we 
had,  but  I  suppose  it  was  fish  and  omelet,  and  meat 
and  chicken,  and  salad  and  dessert,  and  I  know  it 
was  all  hot  and  delicious,  and  served  daintily  in 
courses,  and  we  went  to  those  soft  beds  happy  and 
soothed,  fell  asleep  to  the  soimd  of  the  rain  pattering 
outside,  and  felt  not  a  care  in  the  world. 


Chapter  III 

INTO   THE   JURAS 

TT  was  still  drizzling  next  morning,  so  we  were  in  no 
*  hurry  to  leave.  We  plodded  about  the  gray 
streets,  picking  up  some  things  for  the  limch  basket, 
and  Narcissa  and  the  Joy  got  a  chance  to  try  their 
nice  new  French  on  real  French  people  and  were 
gratified  to  find  that  it  worked  just  the  same  as  it 
did  on  Swiss  people.  Then  the  sky  cleared  and  I 
backed  the  car  out  of  the  big  stable  where  it  had 
spent  the  night,  and  we  packed  on  our  bags  and  paid 
our  bill — twenty-seven  francs  for  all,  or  about  one 
dollar  and  thirty-five  cents  each  for  dinner,  lodging, 
and  breakfast — tips,  one  franc  each  to  waitress, 
chambermaid,  and  garageman.  If  they  were  dis- 
satisfied they  did  not  look  it,  and  presently  we  were 
once  more  on  the  road,  all  the  cylinders  working  and 
bankruptcy  not  yet  in  sight.  It  was  glorious  and 
fresh  along  the  lake-front — also  appetizing.  We 
stopped  by  and  by  for  a  Httle  mid-morning  luncheon, 
and  a  passing  motorist,  who  probably  could  not 
beUeve  we  would  stop  merely  to  eat  at  that  hour, 
drew  up  to  ask  if  anything  was  wrong  with  our  car 
and  if  he  could  help.  They  are  kindly  people,  these 
French  and  Swiss.  Stop  your  car  by  the  roadside 
and  begin  to  hammer  something,  or  to  take  off  a  tire, 


IS3        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

and  you  will  have  offers  of  assistance  from  four  out 
of  every  five  cars  that  pass. 

There  is  another  little  patch  of  Switzerland  again 
at  the  end  of  the  lake,  and  presently  you  run  into 
Geneva,  and  trouble.  Geneva  is  certainly  a  curious 
place.  The  map  of  it  looks  as  easy  as  nothing  and 
you  go  gliding  into  it  full  of  confidence,  and  presently 
find  yourself  in  a  perfect  mess  of  streets  that  are  not 
on  the  map  at  all,  while  all  the  streets  that  are  on 
the  map  certainly  have  changed  their  names,  for 
you  cannot  find  them  where  they  should  be,  and  no 
one  has  ever  heard  of  them.  Besides,  the  wind  is 
generally  blowing — the  hise — which  does  not  simplify 
matters.  Narcissa  inquired  and  I  inquired,  and  then 
the  Joy,  who,  privately,  I  think,  speaks  the  best 
French  of  any  of  us,  also  inquired;  but  the  combined 
result  was  just  a  big  coalyard  which  a  very  good- 
looking  street  led  us  straight  into,  making  it  necessary 
to  back  out  and  apologize  and  feel  ashamed.  Then 
we  heard  somebody  calling  us,  and,  looking  around, 
saw  the  man  in  gray  who  had  last  directed  us,  and 
who  also  felt  ashamed,  it  seemed — of  us,  or  himself, 
or  something — and  had  nm  after  us  to  get  us  out  of 
the  mess.  So  he  directed  us  again  and  we  started, 
but  the  labyrinth  closed  in  once  more — the  dust  and 
narrow  streets  and  blind  alleys — and  once  again  we 
heard  a  voice,  and  there  was  the  man  in  gray — ^he 
must  have  run  a  half  a  mile  this  time — waving  and 
calling  and  pointing  the  path  out  of  the  maze.  It 
seemed  that  they  were  fixing  all  the  good  streets  and 
we  must  get  through  by  circuitous  bad  ones  to  the 
side  of  the  city  toward  France.    I  asked  him  why 


INTO  THE  JURAS  153 

they  didn't  leave  the  good  streets  alone  and  fix  the 
bad  ones,  but  he  only  smiled  and  explained  some 
more,  and  once  more  we  went  astray,  and  yet  once 
more  his  voice  came  calling  down  the  wind  and  he 
came  up  breathlessly,  and  this  time  followed  with  us, 
refusing  even  standing  room  on  the  nmning-board, 
tmtil  he  got  us  out  of  the  city  proper  and  well  headed 
for  France.  We  had  grown  fond  of  that  man  and 
grieved  to  see  him  go.  We  had  known  him  hardly 
ten  minutes,  I  think,  but  friendships  are  not  to  be 
measured  by  time. 

On  a  pretty  hill  where  a  Httle  stream  of  water 
trickled  we  ate  our  first  real  limcheon — that  is  to 
say,  we  used  our  new  stove.  We  cooked  eggs  and 
made  coffee,  and  when  there  came  a  sprinkle  we 
stood  imder  our  umbrellas  or  sat  in  the  car  and  felt 
that  this  was  really  a  kind  of  gypsying,  and  worth 
while. 

There  was  a  waving  meadow  just  above  the  bank 
and  I  went  up  there  to  look  about  a  little.  No  house 
was  in  sight,  but  this  meadow  was  a  part  of  some 
man's  farm.  It  was  familiar  in  every  comer  to  him 
— he  had  known  it  always.  Perhaps  he  had  played 
in  it  as  a  childr-his  children  had  played  in  it  after 
him — it  was  inseparable  from  the  life  and  happiness 
of  a  home.  Yet  to  us  it  was  merely  the  field  above 
our  luncheon  place — a  locality  hardly  noticed  or 
thought  of — barely  to  be  remembered  at  all. 

Crossing  another  lonely  but  fertile  land,  we  entered 
the  hills.  We  skirted  mountainsides — sometimes  in 
sun,  sometimes  in  shower — descended  a  steep  road, 
and  passed  under  a  great  arched  battlement  that 


IS4         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

was  part  of  a  frowning  fortress  guarding  the  frontier 
of  France.  Not  far  beyond,  at  the  foot  of  a  long 
decline,  lay  a  beautiful  city,  just  where  the  moun- 
tains notched  to  form  a  passage  for  the  Rhone.  It 
was  Bellegarde,  and  as  we  drew  nearer  some  of  the 
illusions  of  beauty  disappeared.  French  cities  gen- 
erally show  best  from  a  distance.  Their  streets  are 
not  very  clean  and  they  are  seldom  in  repair.  The 
French  have  the  best  roads  and  the  poorest  streets 
in  the  world. 

We  drew  up  in  front  of  the  custom  house,  and 
exhibited  our  French  triptyque.  It  was  all  right, 
and  after  it  was  indorsed  I  thought  we  were  through. 
This  was  not  true.  A  long,  excited  individual 
appeared  from  somewhere  and  began  nervously  to 
inspect  our  baggage.  Suddenly  he  came  upon  a 
small  empty  cigar  box  which  I  had  put  in,  thinking 
it  might  be  useful.  Cigars  are  forbidden,  and  at 
sight  of  the  empty  box  our  wild-eyed  attenuation 
had  a  fit.  He  turned  the  box  upside  down  and  shook 
it;  he  turned  it  sidewise  and  looked  into  it;  shook 
it  again  and  knocked  on  it  as  if  bound  to  make  the 
cigars  appear.  He  seemed  to  decide  that  I  had 
hidden  the  cigars,  for  he  made  a  raid  on  things  in 
general.  He  looked  into  the  gasoline  tank,  he  went 
through  the  pockets  of  the  catch-all  and  scattered 
our  guidebooks  and  maps;  then  he  had  up  the  cushion 
of  the  back  seat  and  went  into  the  compartment 
where  this  time  was  our  assortment  of  hats.  You 
never  saw  millinery  fly  as  it  did  in  that  man's  hands, 
with  the  head  of  the  family  and  Narcissa  and  the 
Joy  grabbing  at  their  flowers  and  feathers,  and  saying 


INTO  THE  JURAS  155 

things  in  English  that  would  have  hurt  that  man  if 
he  could  have  understood  them.  As  for  him,  he  was 
repeating,  steadily,  "Pas  derange'' — "Pas  derange," 
when  all  the  time  he  was  deranging  ruthlessly  and 
even  permanently.  He  got  through  at  last,  smiled, 
bowed,  and  retired — pleased,  evidently,  with  the 
thoroughness  of  his  investigation.  But  for  some 
reason  he  entirely  overlooked  our  bags  strapped  on 
the  footboard.     We  did  not  remind  him. 

The  Pert  of  the  Rhone  is  at  Bellegarde.  The  pert 
is  a  place  where  in  dry  weather  the  Rhone  disappears 
entirely  from  sight  for  the  space  of  seventy  yards, 
to  come  boiUng  up  again  from  some  unknown  mystery. 
Articles  have  been  thrown  in  on  one  side — even  live 
animals,  it  is  said — ^but  they  have  never  reappeared 
on  the  other.  What  becomes  of  them  is  a  matter 
of  speculation.  Perhaps  some  fearful  imderground 
maelstrom  holds  them.  There  was  no  pert  when 
we  were  there — there  had  been  too  much  rain.  The 
Rhone  went  tearing  through  a  gorge  where  we  judged 
the  pert  should  be  located  in  less  watery  seasons. 

During  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  we  had  rather  a 
damp  time — showery  and  sloppy,  for  many  of  the 
roads  of  these  Jura  foothills  were  in  the  process  of 
repair,  and  the  rain  had  stopped  the  repairs  halfway. 
It  was  getting  toward  dusk  when  we  came  to  Nantua 
— a  lost  and  forgotten  town  among  the  Jura  cliffs. 
We  stopped  in  front  of  the  showier  hotel  there,  every- 
thing looked  so  rain-beaten  and  discouraging,  but 
the  woman  who  ran  it  was  even  showier  than  her 
hotel  and  insisted  on  our  taking  a  parlor  suite  at  some 
fabulous  price.     So  we  drove  away  and  drew  up 


iS6        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

rather  sadly  at  the  H6tel  du  Lac,  which  on  that  dull 
evening  was  far  from  fascinating.  Yet  the  rooms 
they  showed  us  were  good,  and  the  dinner — a  surprise 
of  fresh  trout  just  caught,  served  sizzling  hot,  fine 
baked  potatoes  and  steak,  with  good  red  wine  aplenty 
— was  such  as  to  make  us  forswear  forevermore  the 
showy  hotels  for  the  humbler  inns  of  France. 

But  I  am  moving  too  fast.  Before  dinner  we 
walked  for  a  little  in  the  gray  evening  and  came  to 
an  old  church — one  of  the  oldest  in  France,  it  is  said, 
built  in  the  ninth  century  and  called  St.  Michels. 
It  is  over  a  thousand  years  old  and  looks  it.  It  has 
not  been  much  rebuilt,  I  think,  for  invasion  and 
revolution  appear  seldom  to  have  surmounted  the 
natural  ramparts  of  Nantua,  and  only  the  stormbeat 
and  the  corrosion  of  the  centuries  have  written  the 
story  of  decay.  Very  likely  it  is  as  little  changed 
as  any  church  of  its  time.  The  hand  of  restoration 
has  troubled  it  little.  We  slipped  in  through  the 
gathering  dusk,  and  tiptoed  about,  for  there  were 
a  few  lights  flickering  near  the  altar  and  the  outlines 
of  bowed  heads.  Presently  a  priest  was  silhouetted 
against  the  altar  lights  as  he  crossed  and  passed  out 
by  a  side  door.  He  was  one  of  a  long  line  that 
stretched  back  through  more  than  half  of  the 
Christian  era  and  most  of  the  history  of  France. 
When  the  first  priest  passed  in  front  of  that  altar 
France  was  still  under  the  Carlovingian  dynasty — 
imder  Charles  the  Fat,  perhaps;  and  William  of 
Normandy  would  not  conquer  England  for  two  hun- 
dred years.  Then  nearly  four  hundred  years  more 
would  creep  by — dim  mediaeval  years — before  Joan 


INTO  THE  JURAS  157 

of  Arc  should  unfurl  her  banner  of  victory  and  mar- 
tyrdom. You  see  how  far  back  into  the  mists  we 
are  stepping  here.  And  all  those  evenings  the  altar 
Kghts  have  been  lit  and  the  ministration  of  priests 
has  not  failed. 

There  is  a  fine  picture  by  Eugene  Delacroix  in  the 
old  church,  and  we  came  back  next  morning  to  look 
at  it.  It  is  a  St.  Sebastian,  and  not  the  conven- 
tional, ridiculous  St.  Sebastian  of  some  of  the  old 
masters — a  mere  htunan  pincushion — but  a  beautiful 
youth,  prostrate  and  dying,  pierced  by  two  arrows, 
one  of  which  a  pitying  male  figure  is  drawing  from  his 
shoulder.  It  must  be  a  priceless  picture.  How  can 
they  afford  to  keep  it  here? 

The  weather  seemed  to  have  cleared,  and  the 
roads,  though  wet,  were  neither  soft  nor  slippery. 
French  roads,  in  fact,  are  seldom  either — and  the  fresh 
going  along  the  lake-front  was  delightful  enough. 
But  we  were  in  the  real  Juras  now,  and  one  does  not 
go  through  that  range  on  a  water  grade.  We  were 
presently  among  the  hills,  the  road  ahead  of  us  rising 
to  the  sky.  Then  it  began  to  rain  again,  but  the 
road  was  a  good  firm  one  and  the  car  never  pulled 
better. 

It  was  magnificent  climbing.  On  the  steepest 
grades  and  elbow  turns  we  dropped  back  to  second, 
but  never  to  low,  and  there  was  no  lagging.  On  the 
high  levels  we  stopped  to  let  the  engine  cool  and  to 
add  water  from  the  wayside  hollows.  We  were  in 
the  clouds  soon,  and  sometimes  it  was  raining,  some- 
times not.  It  seemed  for  the  most  part  an  imin- 
habited  land — no  houses  and  few  fields — the  ground 


158         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

covered  with  a  short  bushy  growth,  grass  and  flowers. 
A  good  deal  of  it  was  rocky  and  barren. 

On  the  very  highest  point  of  the  Jura  range,  where 
we  had  stopped  to  cool  the  motor,  a  woman  came 
along,  leading  three  little  children.  She  came  up  and 
said  a  few  words  in  what  soimded  like  an  attempt  at 
English.  We  tried  our  French  on  her,  but  it  did 
not  seem  to  get  inside.  I  said  she  must  speak  some 
moimtain  patois,  for  we  had  used  those  same  words 
lower  down  with  good  results.  But  then  she  began 
her  English  again — it  was  surely  EngHsh  this  time, 
and,  listening  closely,  we  got  the  fringes  and  tag  ends 
of  a  curious  story.  She  was  Italian,  and  had  been 
in  New  York  City.  There,  it  seemed,  she  had  mar- 
ried a  Frenchman  from  the  Juras,  who,  in  time,  when 
his  homeland  had  called  him,  had  brought  her  back 
to  the  hills.  There  he  had  died,  leaving  her  with  six 
children.  She  had  a  little  hut  up  the  side  lane, 
where  they  were  trying  to  scratch  a  living  from  the 
stony  soil.  Yes,  she  had  chickens,  and  could  let  us 
have  some  eggs.  She  also  brought  a  pail  with  water 
for  the  radiator. 

A  little  farther  along  we  cooked  the  eggs  and  laid 
out  all  our  nice  lunch  things  on  natural  stone  tables 
and  looked  far  down  the  Jura  slope  on  an  ancient 
village  and  an  old  castle,  the  beginning  of  the  world 
across  the  range. 

It  was  not  raining  now,  and  the  air  was  soft  and 
pleasant  and  the  spot  as  clean  and  sweet  as  could  be. 
Presently  the  water  was  boiling  and  the  coffee  made 
— instantaneous  coffee,  the  George  Washington  kind. 
And  nothing  could  be  fresher  than  those  eggs,  nothing 


INTO  THE  JURAS  159 

unless  it  was  the  butter — unsalted  butter,  which 
with  jam  and  rolls  is  about  the  best  thing  in  the  world 
to  finish  on. 

We  descended  the  Jura  grades  on  the  engine  brake 
— that  is,  I  let  in  the  clutch,  cut  off  the  gasoline 
supply  and  descended  on  first  or  second  speed,  accord- 
ing to  the  grade.  That  saves  the  wheel  brake  and 
does  no  damage  to  the  motor.  I  suppose  everybody 
knows  the  trick,  but  I  did  not  learn  it  right  away, 
and  there  may  be  others  who  know  as  little.  It  was 
a  long  way  to  the  lower  levels,  and  some  of  the  grades 
were  steep.  Then  they  became  gradual,  and  we 
coasted — then  the  way  flattened  and  we  were  looking 
across  a  level  valley,  threaded  by  perfectly  ordered 
roads  to  a  distant  town  whose  roofs  and  spires  gleamed 
in  the  sunlight  of  the  May  afternoon.  It  was  Bourg, 
and  one  of  the  spires  belonged  to  the  church  of  Brou. 


Chapter  IV 

A  POEM   IN  ARCHITECTURE 

THE  church  of  Brou  is  like  no  other  church  in  the 
world.  In  the  first  place,  instead  of  dragging 
through  centuries  of  building  and  never  quite  reach- 
ing completion,  it  was  begun  and  finished  in  the  space 
of  twenty-five  years — ^from  151 1  to  1536 — and  it  was 
supervised  and  paid  for  by  a  single  person,  Margaret 
of  Austria,  who  built  it  in  fulfillment  of  a  vow  made 
by  her  mother-in-law,  Margaret  of  Bourbon.  The 
last  Margaret  died  before  she  could  imdertake  her 
project,  and  her  son,  Philibert  II,  Duke  of  Savoy, 
called  "The  Handsome,"  followed  before  he  could 
carry  out  her  wishes.  So  his  duchess,  the  other 
Margaret,  imdertook  the  work,  and  here  on  this 
plain,  between  the  Juras  and  the  Sa6ne,  she  wrought 
a  marvel  in  exquisite  church  building  which  still 
remains  a  marvel,  almost  untouched  by  any  blight, 
after  fotu*  hundred  turbulent  years.  Matthew  Arnold 
wrote  a  poem  on  the  church  of  Brou  which  may  con- 
vey the  wonder  of  its  beauty.  I  shall  read  it  some 
day,  and  if  it  is  as  beautiful  as  the  church  I  shall 
commit  it,  and  on  days  when  things  seem  rather 
ugly  and  harsh  and  rasping  I  will  find  some  quiet 
comer  and  shut  my  eyes  and  say  the  lines  and  picture 
a  sunlit  May  afternoon  and  the  church  of  Brou. 
Then,  perhaps,  I  shall  not  remember  any  more  the 


A  POEM  IN  ARCHITECTURE  i6i 

petty  things  of  the  moment  but  only  the  architec- 
tural shrine  which  one  woman  reared  in  honor  of 
another,  her  mother-in-law. 

It  is  not  a  great  cathedral,  but  it  is  by  no  means  a 
little  church.  Its  lofty  nave  is  bare  of  furnishings, 
which  perhaps  lends  to  its  impression  of  bigness. 
But  then  you  pass  through  the  carved  doors  of  a 
magnificent  juba  screen,  and  the  bareness  disappears. 
The  oaken  choir  seats  are  carved  with  the  richness 
of  embroidery,  and  beyond  them  are  the  tombs — 
those  of  the  two  Margarets,  and  of  Philibert — ^husband 
and  son. 

I  suppose  the  world  can  show  no  more  exquisitely 
wrought  tombs  than  these.  Perhaps  their  very 
richness  defeats  their  art  value,  but  I  would  rather 
have  them  so,  for  it  reveals,  somehow,  the  thorough- 
ness and  sincerity  of  Margaret's  intent — her  deter- 
mination to  fulfill  to  the  final  letter  every  imagined 
possibility  in  that  other's  vow. 

The  mother's  tomb  is  a  sort  of  bower — a  marble 
alcove  of  great  splendor,  within  and  without.  Phil- 
ibert's  tomb,  which  stands  in  the  center  of  the  church, 
between  the  other  two,  is  a  bier,  supported  by  female 
figures  and  fluted  colimms  and  interwoven  decora- 
tions, exquisitely  chiseled.  Six  cupids  and  a  crouch- 
ing lion  guard  the  royal  figure  above ;  and  the  whole, 
in  spite  of  its  richness,  is  of  great  dignity.  The  tomb 
of  the  Duchess  Margaret  herself  is  a  lofty  canopy 
of  marble  incrustations,  the  elaborateness  of  which 
no  words  can  tell.  It  is  the  superlative  of  Gothic 
decoration  at  a  period  when  Gothic  extravagance 
was  supreme. 


i63         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Like  her  husband  Margaret  sleeps  in  double  effigy, 
the  sovereign  in  state  above,  the  figure  of  mortality, 
compassed  by  the  marble  supports,  below.  The 
mortality  of  the  queen  is  draped,  but  in  the  case  of 
Philibert,  the  naked  figure,  rather  dim  through  the 
interspaces,  has  a  curiously  lifelike,  even  startHng 
effect. 

If  the  Duchess  Margaret  made  her  own  tomb  more 
elaborate,  it  is  at  least  not  more  beautiful  than  the 
others,  while  an  altar  to  the  Virgin  is  still  more 
elaborate — more  beautiful,  its  grouped  marble  figures 
in  such  high  relief  that  angels  and  cherubs  float  in 
the  air,  apparently  imsupported.  Here,  as  elsewhere, 
is  a  wealth  of  ornamentation ;  and  everywhere  woven 
into  its  intricacies  one  may  find  the  initials  P  and 
M — Philibert  and  Margaret — and  the  latter's  motto, 
**  Fortune,  infortune,  fort  une"  It  has  been  called 
a  mysterious  motto,  and  different  meanings  have 
been  twisted  out  of  it.  But  my  French  is  new  and 
fresh  and  takes  things  quite  obviously.  "Fortune 
and  misfortune  strengthens  or  fortifies  one"  strikes 
me  as  a  natural  rendering.  That  last  verb  fortifier 
may  seem  to  be  abbreviated  without  warrant,  but 
Margaret  was  a  queen  and  could  have  done  that  for 
the  sake  of  euphony  and  word-play. 

The  unscarred  condition  and  the  purity  of  these 
precious  marbles  is  almost  as  astonishing  as  their 
beauty,  when  one  considers  the  centuries  of  invasion 
and  revolution,  with  a  vandalism  that  respected 
nothing  sacred,  least  of  all  symbols  of  royalty.  By 
careful  search  we  could  discover  a  broken  detail  here 
and  there,  but  the  general  effect  was  completeness. 


o 
a 

M 

O 

a 

o 


A  POEM  IN  ARCHITECTURE  163 

and  the  white  marble — or  was  it  ivory  tinted? — seen 
under  the  Ught  of  the  illumined  stained  windows 
seemed  to  present  the  shapes  and  shades  of  things 
that,  as  they  had  never  been  new,  neither  would 
they  ever  be  old. 


Chapter  V 

VIENNE   IN  THE   RAIN 

IT  is  about  forty  miles  from  Bourg  to  Lyons,  a 
country  of  fair  fields,  often  dyed  deeply  red  at  this 
season  with  crimson  clover,  a  country  rich  and  beau- 
tiful, the  road  a  straight  line,  wide  and  smooth,  the 
trees  on  either  side  vividly  green  with  spring.  But 
Lyons  is  not  beautiful — ^it  is  just  a  jangling,  jarring 
city  of  cobbled  crowded  streets  and  mainly  iminter- 
esting  houses  and  thronging  humanity,  especially 
soldiers.  It  is  a  place  to  remain  unloved,  unhonored, 
and  imremembered. 

The  weather  now  put  aside  other  things  and  really 
got  down  to  the  business  of  raining.  It  was  fair 
enough  when  we  left  Lyons,  but  as  we  reached  the 
top  of  a  hill  that  overlooked  the  world  I  saw  down 
the  fields  a  spectral  Hght  and  far  deepening  dusk 
which  looked  ominous.  By  the  time  we  got  our  top 
up  there  was  a  steady  downpour.  We  did  not  visit 
any  wayside  villages,  though  some  of  them  looked 
interesting  enough.  French  villages  are  none  too 
clean  at  any  time  and  rain  does  not  seem  to  help  them. 
Attractive  old  castles  on  neighboring  hilltops  received 
hardly  a  glance;  even  one  overhanging  otu*  very- 
road  barely  caused  us  to  check  up.  How  old  it 
looked  in  its  wet  desolation,  the  storm  eating  into 
its  crumbling  walls! 


VIENNE  IN  THE  RAIN  165 

We  piilled  up  at  last  at  Vienne,  at  the  end  of  the 
bridge  facing  the  cathedral.  History  has  been  writ- 
ten about  Vienne,  and  there  are  monuments  of  the 
past  which  it  is  not  good  form  to  overlook.  The 
head  of  the  family  said  she  was  not  very  particular 
about  form  and  that  she  was  particular  about  being 
wet  and  discomforted  on  a  chill  spring  day.  France 
was  full  of  monuments  of  the  past,  she  said,  and  she 
had  not  started  out  to  make  her  collection  complete. 
She  would  study  the  cathedral  from  the  car,  and 
would  the  rest  of  us  please  remember  to  bring  some 
fresh  rolls  for  limcheon.  So  the  rest  of  us  went  to 
the  church  of  St.  Maurice,  which  begins  to  date  with 
the  twelfth  century  and  looks  even  older.  Surrounded 
by  comparatively  modem  buildings  and  soaked  with 
rain  it  appeared,  one  of  the  most  venerable  relics 
I  had  ever  seen.  I  do  not  think  we  fotmd  the  inside 
very  interesting.  It  was  dead  and  dusky,  and  the 
seventh-century  sarcophagus  of  St.  Leoninus  was,  in 
the  French  phrase,  not  gay.  On  the  whole  there 
seemed  a  good  deal  of  mutilation  and  not  much  taste. 

We  paddled  through  streets,  asking  directions  to 
the  Roman  temple.  Vienne  was  an  important  town 
tmder  the  Romans,  the  capital  of  one  of  the  provinces 
of  Gaul.  Of  course  the  Romans  would  leave  land- 
marks— the  kind  that  would  last.  When  we  found 
the  temple  of  Augustus  and  Livia  at  last,  it  did  not 
look  so  much  older  than  the  church,  though  it  is  more 
than  as  old  again.  It  was  so  positively  Roman  and 
so  out  of  place  among  its  modem  French  surroimd- 
ings  that  it  looked  exactly  like  something  that  had 
been  brought  there  and  set  up  for  exhibition.     It 


i66         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

took  a  heavy  strain  of  imagination  to  see  it  as  an 
integral  part  of  the  vanished  Roman  capital. 

All  about  the  temple  lay  fragments  of  that  ancient 
city — exhibition  pieces,  like  the  temple.  One  felt 
that  they  should  not  be  left  out  in  the  rain. 

We  himted  farther  and  foimd  an  Arch  of  Triimiph, 
which  the  Romans  generally  built  in  conquered  ter- 
ritory. It  was  hard  to  tell  where  the  arch  began 
and  where  it  ended,  such  a  variety  of  other  things 
had  grown  up  aroimd  and  against  it.  Still,  there 
was  at  least  a  section  standing,  Roman,  and  of  noble 
proportions.  It  will  still  be  Roman,  and  an  arch, 
when  those  later  incrustations  have  crumbled  away. 
Roman  work  is  not  trivial  stuff. 

We  might  have  lingered  a  little  in  the  winding 
streets  and  made  further  discoveries,  but  the  Joy 
had  already  sighted  a  place  where  the  most  attractive 
rolls  and  French  cakes  filled  the  window.  The 
orders,  she  said,  were  very  strict  about  the  luncheon 
things.  We  must  get  them  at  once  or  we  should  not 
be  able  to  locate  the  place  again. 

Curious  things  can  happen  in  a  brief  absence.  We 
returned  to  the  car  to  find  one  of  the  back  tires  per- 
fectly flat,  the  head  of  the  family  sitting  serenely 
unconscious  of  her  misfortune.  We  had  picked  up 
one  of  those  flat-headed  boot  nails  that  Europeans 
love  so  well,  and  the  tire  had  slowly  and  softly  settled. 
There  are  cleaner,  pleasanter  things  than  taking  off 
a  tire  and  putting  it  on  again  in  the  rain,  but  I  utilized 
a  deep  doorway  on  the  comer  for  the  dry  work,  and 
Narcissa  held  the  imibrella  while  I  pulled  and  pushed 
and  grunted  and  pumped,  during  the  more  stren- 


VIENNE  IN  THE  RAIN  167 

uous  moments.  Down  the  river  a  way  we  drew  up 
in  a  grassy  place  tmder  some  trees  and  sat  in  the  car 
and  ate  the  gdteaux  and  other  things,  and  tmder  the 
green  shelter  I  made  coffee  and  eggs,  the  little  cooker 
sitting  cozily  on  the  running-board.  Then  all  the 
afternoon  along  the  hard,  wet,  shining  road  that 
follows  the  Rhone  to  Valence,  where  we  spent  two 
days,  watching  the  steady  beat  from  the  hotel 
windows,  reading,  resting,  and  eating  a  good  deal 
of  the  time;  doing  not  much  sight-seeing,  for  we 
had  touched  Valence  on  our  northward  trip  eight 
months  before. 
12 


Chapter  VI 

THE   CHATEAU   I   DID   NOT   RENT 

IN  a  former  chapter  I  have  mentioned  the  mighty- 
natural  portrait  in  stone  which  Mark  Twain  found, 
and  later  named  the  Lost  Napoleon,  because  he  could 
not  remember  its  location,  and  how  we  rediscovered 
it  from  Beauchastel  on  the  Rhone,  not  far  below 
Valence.  We  decided  now  that  we  would  have  at 
least  another  glimpse  of  the  great  stone  face,  it  being 
so  near.  The  skies  had  cleared  this  morning,  though 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  wind  and  the  sun  was  not 
especially  warm.  But  we  said  we  would  go.  We 
would  be  getting  on  toward  the  south,  at  any 
rate. 

We  did  not  descend  on  the  Beauchastel  side,  there 
being  a  bridge  shown  on  the  map,  at  La  Voulte,  where 
we  would  cross.  The  reader  may  also  remember 
the  mention  of  a  chateau  below  Beauchastel,  with  a 
sign  on  it  which  said  that  the  property  was  to  let, 
and  my  failure  to  negotiate  for  it.  Very  well,  here 
is  the  sequel:  When  we  got  to  the  end  of  the  bridge 
opposite  La  Voulte,  we  looked  across  to  one  of  the 
closely  packed  mediaeval  villages  of  France  with  a 
great  castle  rising  from  its  central  height.  It  was 
one  of  the  most  picturesque  things  we  had  seen  and 
I  stopped  to  photograph  it,  declaring  we  must  cer- 


THE  CHATEAU  I  DID  NOT  RENT        169 

tainly  visit  it.  So  we  crossed  the  bridge  and  at  the 
end  turned  away  toward  Beauchastel,  deciding  to 
visit  La  Voulte  later. 

We  were  back  almost  immediately.  The  day  was 
not  as  clear  as  it  looked  and  the  Lost  Napoleon  was 
veiled,  behind  a  white  horizon.  Very  Hkely  it  would 
be  better  by  morning,  we  said,  so  we  dropped  our 
belongings  at  the  tiny  Beauchastel  inn  and  made  an 
afternoon  excursion  to  the  chMeau.  Imagine  my 
feelings  when,  on  looking  up  from  the  road,  I  sud- 
denly discovered  once  more  the  big  sign,  "Chdteau 
A  Louer.''  It  was  our  chateau — the  one  I  had 
formerly  been  discouraged  from  taking.  It  was 
providence,  I  said,  knocking  a  second  time  at  our 
door. 

The  others  had  another  view.  They  said  unless 
I  would  promise  not  to  rent  the  premises  I  would 
not  be  permitted  to  examine  them.  I  tried  to  make 
better  terms,  but  finally  submitted.  We  drove  up 
into  the  narrow,  ancient,  cobbled  streets  a  distance 
and  left  the  car.  Then  we  climbed.  It  was  a  steep 
and  tortuous  way,  winding  arotmd  scary  edges  and 
through  doubtful-looking  passages  where,  in  weird 
holes  and  crannies,  old  and  crooked  people  lived  and 
were  doing  what  they  had  always  done  since  time 
began.  I  don't  remember  exactly  how  we  finally 
made  our  way  through  cnmible  and  decay — such 
surroundings  as  I  have  often  known  in  dreams — to 
a  grassy  court  where  there  was  a  semblance  of  genuine 
life.  An  old  caretaker  was  there  and  he  agreed  to 
show  us  through. 

It  was  called  La  Voulte  sur  Rhone,  he  said,  and  gave 


170         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

its  name  to  the  village.  No  one  knew  just  when  it 
had  been  begun,  but  some  of  it  had  been  there  in 
the  eleventh  century,  when  it  had  belonged  to  Adon 
de  Clerieu.  It  had  passed  through  many  hands 
and  had  been  more  than  once  reconstructed.  At 
one  time  Guillaume  de  Fay  held  it;  also  Philippe  IV 
and  Louis  de  Bourbon  Cond6,  and  the  great  family 
of  De  Rohan.  Kings  had  been  entertained  there, 
among  them  Louis  XIII,  an  interesting  fact,  but  I 
wished  they  had  given  better  accommodations  than 
the  rambling,  comfortless,  and  rather  blind  succes- 
sion of  boxes  shown  us  as  the  royal  suite.  I  also 
objected  to  the  paper  on  the  walls  imtil  our  guide 
explained  that  it  had  been  put  there  by  an  American 
tenant  of  the  early  Andrew  Johnson  period.  He 
told  us  then  that  the  chateau  had  been  recently 
bought  by  a  French  author  of  two  volimies  of  poetry, 
who  was  restoring  portions  of  it  and  had  reserved 
a  row  of  rooms  along  the  high  terrace  to  let  to  other 
poets  and  kindred  souls,  so  they  might  live  side  by 
side  and  look  out  over  the  fair  land  of  France  and 
interchange  their  fancies  and  dream  long  dreams. 
Standing  on  that  lofty  green  vantage  and  looking 
out  across  the  river  and  the  valley  of  the  Rhone,  I 
was  tempted  to  violate  my  treaty  and  Hve  there 
forever  after. 

The  only  portion  really  restored,  so  far,  is  a  large 
assembly  room,  now  used  as  a  sort  of  museum.  I 
hope  the  owner  will  reclaim,  or  at  least  clean,  some 
of  the  other  rooms,  and  that  he  will  not  carry  the 
work  to  the  point  where  atmosphere  and  romance 
seem  to  disappear.     Also,  I  truly  hope  he  won't  give 


THE  CHATEAU  I  DID  NOT  RENT        171 

up  the  notion  of  that  row  of  poets  along  the  terrace, 
even  if  I  can't  be  one  of  them;  and  I  should  like  to 
slip  up  there  sometime  and  hear  them  all  striking 
their  harps  in  imison  and  lifting  a  memnonic  voice 
to  the  simrise. 


Chapter  VII 

AN  HOUR  AT   ORANGE 

/^UR  bill  at  Beauchastel  for  the  usual  accommo- 
^^  dation — dinner,  lodging,  and  breakfast — was 
seventeen  francs-twenty,  including  the  tips  to  two 
girls  and  the  stableman.  This  was  the  cheapest  to 
date;  that  is  to  say,  our  expense  account  was  one 
dollar  each,  nothing  for  the  car. 

The  Beauchastel  inn  is  not  really  a  choice  place, 
but  it  is  by  no  means  a  poor  place — ^not  from  the 
point  of  view  of  an  American  who  has  put  up  at  his 
own  little  crossroad  hotels.  We  had  the  dining 
room  to  ourselves,  with  a  roimd  table  in  the  center, 
and  the  dinner  was  good  and  plentiful  and  well 
served.  If  the  rooms  were  bare  they  were  at  least 
clean,  and  the  landlady  was  not  to  blame  that  it 
turned  cold  in  the  night,  which  made  getting  up  a 
matter  to  be  considered. 

Still,  we  did  get  up  pretty  promptly,  for  we  wanted 
to  see  if  our  natural  wonder  was  on  view.  It  was, 
and  we  took  time  and  sketched  it  and  tried  to  pho- 
tograph it,  though  that  was  hopeless,  for  the  distance 
was  too  great  and  the  apparition  too  actinic — too 
blue.  But  it  was  quite  clear,  and  the  peaceful  face 
impressed  us,  I  think,  more  than  ever.  The  best 
view  is  from  the  railway  embankment. 

We  got  another  reward  for  stopping  at  Beauchastel. 


AN  HOUR  AT  ORANGE  173 

We  saw  the  old  Rhone  stagecoach  come  in,  Daudet's 
coach,  and  saw  descend  from  it  Daudet's  characters, 
le  Camarguais,  le  boulanger,  le  remouleur,  and  the  rest. 
At  least  they  might  have  been  those,  for  they  belonged 
with  the  old  diligence,  and  one  could  imagine  the 
knife  grinder  saying  to  the  hectoring  baker,  "Tais- 
toi,  je  fen  prie"  si  navrant  et  si  doux} 

But  now  we  felt  the  breath  of  the  south.  It  was 
no  longer  clully.  The  sun  began  to  glow  warm,  the 
wind  died.  Sometime  in  the  afternoon  we  arrived 
at  Orange.  Orange  is  not  on  the  Rhone  and  we  had 
missed  it  in  our  northward  journey  in  September. 
It  was  one  of  our  special  reasons  for  returning  to  the 
south  of  France.  Not  the  town  of  Orange  itself, 
which  is  of  no  particular  importance,  but  for  the 
remnants  of  the  Roman  occupation — a  triumphal 
arch  and  the  chief  wall  of  a  Roman  theater,  both  of 
such  fine  construction  and  noble  proportions  that 
they  are  to  be  compared  with  nothing  else  of  their 
kind  in  France. 

We  came  to  the  arch  first — we  had  scarcely  entered 
the  town  when  we  were  directly  facing  it.  It  stands 
in  a  kind  of  circular  grass  plot  a  little  below  the  present 
level,  with  short  flights  of  steps  leading  down  to  it. 
At  the  moment  of  our  arrival  a  boy  of  about  fifteen 
was  giving  an  exhibition  by  riding  up  and  down  these 
steps  on  a  bicycle.  I  sincerely  wished  he  would  not 
do  it. 

Whatever  its  relation  to  its  surroundings  nineteen 
centuries  ago,  the  arch  of  Orange  is  magnificently 

^"La  Diligence  de  Baucaire"  in  Lettre  de  Mon  Moulin,  Alphonse 
Daudet. 


174        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

out  of  place  to-day.  Time-beaten  and  weather- 
stained — a  visible  manifest  of  a  race  that  built  not 
for  the  generations  or  the  centuries,  but  for  "the 
long,  long  time  the  world  shall  last" — supreme  in 
its  grandeur  and  antiquity,  it  stands  in  an  environ- 
ment quite  modem,  quite  new,  and  wholly  trivial. 

The  arch  is  really  three  arches — the  highest  in  the 
center,  and  the  attic,  as  they  call  the  part  above,  is 
lofty,  with  rich  decorations,  still  well  preserved. 
There  are  restored  patches  here  and  there,  but  they 
do  little  injury. 

From  whatever  direction  you  look  the  arch  is 
beautiful,  imposing,  and  certainly  it  seems  eternal. 
When  the  present  Orange  has  crumbled  and  has  been 
followed  by  successive  cities,  it  will  still  be  there, 
but  I  trust  the  boy  with  the  bicycle  will  not  survive. 

The  theater  is  at  the  other  end  of  town.  It  is  not 
an  amphitheater  or  an  inclosure  of  any  kind,  but  a 
huge  flat  wall,  about  as  solid  as  the  hills  and  one  of 
the  biggest  things  in  France.  Strictly  speaking,  it 
was  never  part  of  any  building  at  all.  It  was  simply 
a  stage  property,  a  sort  of  permanent  back  scene  for 
what  I  judge  to  have  been  an  open-air  theater.  There 
is  no  doubt  about  its  permanency.  It  is  as  high  as 
an  ordinary  ten-  or  twelve-story  building,  longer 
than  the  average  city  block,  and  it  is  fifteen  feet  thick. 
That  is  the  Roman  idea  of  scenery.  They  did  not 
expect  to  shift  it  often.  They  set  up  some  decorative 
masonry  in  front  of  it,  with  a  few  gods  and  heroes 
solidly  placed,  and  let  it  go  at  that.  Their  stage 
would  be  just  in  front  of  this,  rather  narrow,  and 
about  on  a  ground  level.    The  whole  was  built  facing 


AN  HOUR  AT  ORANGE  175 

a  steep  rocky  hillside,  which  was  carved  into  a  semi- 
circle of  stone  seats,  in  the  old  fashion  which  Rome 
borrowed  from  Greece.  This  natural  stonework  did 
not  stand  the  wash  of  centuries,  or  it  may  have  been 
quarried  for  the  chateau  which  the  princes  of  Orange 
built  at  the  summit  of  the  hill.  The  chateau  is  gone 
to-day,  and  the  seats  have  been  restored,  I  dare  say, 
with  some  of  the  original  material.  Every  August 
now  a  temporary  stage  is  erected  in  the  ancient 
theater,  and  the  Com^die  Frangaise  gives  perform- 
ances there. 

•  The  upper  works  of  the  hill,  where  the  chateau 
was,  are  rather  confusing.  There  are  cave-like  places 
and  sudden  drops  and  rudimentary  passages,  all 
dimly  suggesting  dungeons,  once  black  and  horrible, 
now  happily  open  to  the  sun.  And,  by  the  way,  I 
suppose  that  I  am  about  the  only  person  in  the 
world  who  needed  to  be  told  that  a  line  of  kings 
originated  at  Orange.  I  always  supposed  that 
WilHam  of  Orange  took  his  name  from  an  Irish 
society  whose  colors,  along  with  a  shamrock,  he  wore 
in  his  hat. 

By  some  oversight  the  guidebook  does  not  mention 
the  jam  that  is  sold  at  Orange.  It  is  put  up  in  tin 
pails,  and  has  in  it  all  the  good  things  in  the  world — 
lumps  of  them — price,  one  franc  per  pail. 

We  did  not  stop  at  Avignon,  for  we  had  been  there 
before,  but  followed  around  outside  the  ancient  wall 
and  came  at  last  to  the  Rhone  bridge,  and  to  the 
island  of  our  smoke  adventure  in  the  days  of  our 
inexperience,  eight  months  earlier.  This  time  we 
camped  on  the  island  in  a  pretty  green  nook  by  the 


176         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

water's  edge,  left  the  car  under  a  tree,  and  made  tea 
and  had  some  of  that  excellent  jam  and  some  fresh 
rolls  and  butter,  and  ate  them  looking  across  to  ancient 
Villeneuve  and  the  tower  of  Philip  le  Bel. 

Oh,  the  automobile  is  the  true  flying  carpet — 
swift,  willing,  always  ready,  obeying  at  a  touch. 
Only  this  morning  we  were  at  Beauchastel;  a  little 
while  ago  we  were  imder  the  ancient  arch  at  Orange 
and  sat  in  the  hoary  theater.  A  twist  of  the  crank, 
a  little  turning  of  the  wheel,  a  brief  flight  across  wood 
and  meadow,  and  behold!  the  walls  of  Avignon  and 
a  pleasant  island  in  the  river,  where  we  alight  for  a 
little  to  make  our  tea  in  the  greenery,  knowing  that 
we  need  only  to  rub  the  magic  lamp  to  sail  lightly 
away,  resting  where  we  will. 

Our  tea  ended,  the  genii  awoke  and  dropped  us  into 
Villeneuve,  where,  in  an  open  market,  we  realized 
that  it  was  cherry  season.  I  thought  I  had  seen 
cherries  before,  but  never  in  this  larger  sense.  Here 
there  were  basketfuls,  boxfuls,  bucketfuls,  barrelfuls, 
wagonloads — the  whole  street  was  crowded  with 
wagons,  and  every  wagon  heaped  high  with  the 
crimson  and  yellow  fruit.  Officials  seemed  to  be 
weighing  them  and  collecting  something,  a  tax,  no 
doubt.  But  what  would  be  done  with  them  later? 
Could  they  ship  all  those  cherries  north  and  sell 
them?  And  remember-  this  was  only  one  evening 
and  one  town.  The  thought  that  every  evening 
and  every  town  in  the  Midi  was  like  this  in  cherry 
time  was  stupefying.  We  had  to  work  our  way 
among  cherry  wagons  to  get  to  the  open  road  again, 
and  our  "flying  carpet"  came  near  getting  damaged 


AN  HOUR  AT  ORANGE  177 

by  one  of  them,  because  of  my  being  impatient  and 
trying  to  push  ahead  when  an  approaching  cherry 
wagon  had  the  right  of  way.  As  it  was,  I  got  a 
vigorous  admonishment  in  French  profanity,  which 
is  feathery  stuff,  practically  harmless.  I  deserved 
something  much  more  solid. 

Consider  for  a  moment  this  French  profanity: 
About  the  most  violent  things  a  Frenchman  can 
say  are  "Sacre  bleu'*  and  "Nom  d'un  chien!**  One 
means  "Sacred  blue"  and  the  other  "Name  of  a 
dog."  If  he  doubles  the  last  and  says  "Name  of  a 
name  of  a  dog,"  he  has  gone  his  limit,  I  fail  to  find 
anything  personal  or  destructive  or  profane  in  these 
things.  They  don't  seem  to  hit  anything,  not  even 
the  dog.  And  why  a  dog?  Furthermore,  concerning 
the  color  chosen  for  profane  use — why  blue?  why 
not  some  shade  of  Nile  green,  or — or —  Oh,  well,  let 
it  go,  but  I  do  wish  I  could  have  changed  places  with 
that  man  a  few  minutes! 

We  considered  returning  to  Avignon  for  the  night, 
but  we  went  to  Tarascon  instead,  and  arrived  after 
dark  at  a  bright  Httle  inn,  where  we  were  comfortably 
lodged,  and  a  relative  of  Tartarin  brought  us  a  good 
supper  and  entertained  us  with  his  adventures  while 
we  ate. 


Chapter  VIII 

THE  ROAD  TO  PONT  DU  GARD 

TT  is  a  wide,  white  road,  bordered  by  the  rich  fields 
■^  of  May  and  the  unbelievable  poppies  of  France. 
Oh,  especially  the  poppies!  I  have  not  spoken  of 
them  before,  I  think.  They  had  begun  to  show  about 
as  soon  as  we  started  south — a  few  here  and  there 
at  first,  splashes  of  blood  amid  the  green,  and  some- 
times mingling  a  httle  with  the  deep  tones  of  the 
crimson  clover,  with  curious  color  efiEect.  They 
became  presently  more  plentiful.  There  were  fields 
where  the  scarlet  and  the  vivid  green  of  May  were 
fighting  for  the  mastery,  and  then  came  fields  where 
the  scarlet  conquered,  was  supreme,  and  stretched 
away,  a  glowing,  radiant  sheen  of  such  splendid  color 
as  one  can  hardly  beHeve,  even  for  the  moment  that 
he  turns  away.  It  was  scarlet  silk  imrolled  in  the 
sun.  It  was  a  tide  of  blood.  It  was  as  if  all  the 
world  at  war  had  made  this  their  battlefield.  And 
it  did  not  grow  old  to  us.  When  we  had  seen  a  hun- 
dred of  those  fields  they  still  fascinated  us;  we  still 
exclaimed  over  them  and  could  not  tear  our  eyes  away. 
We  passed  wagonloads  of  cherries  now.  In  fact, 
we  did  not  pass  loads  of  anything  else.  Cherry  har- 
vest was  at  its  height.  Everybody  was  carrying 
baskets,  or  picking,  or  hauling  to  market.  We 
stopped  and  asked  an  old  man  drowsing  on  a  load  to 


THE  ROAD  TO  PONT  DU  CARD    179 

sell  us  some.  He  gave  us  about  a  half  a  peck  for 
eight  cents  and  kept  piling  on  until  I  had  to  stop  him. 
Then  he  picked  up  a  specially  tied  bimch  of  selected 
ones,  very  handsome,  and  laid  them  on  top  and 
pointed  at  Narcissa — "For  the  demoiselle."  We 
thanked  him  and  waved  back  to  him,  but  he  had 
settled  down  into  his  seat  and  was  probably  asleep 
again.  All  drivers  sleep  in  the  Provence.  They  are 
children  of  the  south  and  the  sun  soothes  them. 
They  give  their  horses  the  rein  and  only  waken  to 
turn  out  when  you  blow  or  shout  very  loudly.  You 
need  an  especially  strong  Klaxonette  in  the  Provence. 
Baedeker  says:  "The  Pont  du  Gard  is  one  of  the 
grandest  Roman  structures  in  existence."  I  am 
glad  Baedeker  said  that,  for  with  my  limited  knowl- 
edge I  should  have  been  afraid  to  do  it,  but  I  should 
always  have  thought  so.  A  long  time  ago  I  visited 
the  Natural  Bridge  of  Virginia.  I  had  been  disap- 
pointed in  natural  wonders,  and  I  expected  no  great 
things  of  the  Natural  Bridge.  I  scaled  my  imagina- 
tion down  by  degrees  as  I  followed  a  path  to  the  view- 
point, until  I  was  prepared  to  face  a  reality  not  so 
many  times  bigger  than  the  picture  which  my  school 
geography  had  made  familiar.  Then  all  at  once  I 
turned  a  comer  and  stood  speechless  and  stupefied. 
Far  up  against  the  blue  a  majestic  span  of  stone 
stretched  between  two  mighty  cliffs.  I  have  seen 
the  Gr^d  Caiion  since,  and  Niagara  Falls,  but 
nothing  ever  quite  overwhelmed  me  as  did  that 
stupendous  Virginia  stone  arch — nothing  imtil  we 
roimded  a  bend  in  the  road  and  stopped  facing  the 
Pont  du  Gard.    Those  two  are  of  the  same  class — 


i8o         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

bridges  supreme — the  one  of  nature,  the  other  of  art. 
Neither,  I  think,  was  intended  as  a  bridge  originally. 
The  Romans  intended  these  three  colossal  tiers  of 
columns,  one  above  the  other,  merely  as  supports 
for  the  aqueduct  at  the  top,  which  conducted  water 
to  Nimes.  I  do  not  know  what  the  Almighty  intended 
his  for — ^possibly  for  decoration.  To-day  both  are 
used  as  bridges — both  are  very  beautiful,  and  about 
equally  eternal,  I  should  think,  for  the  Roman 
builders  came  nearer  to  the  enduring  methods  of 
the  Original  Builder  than  any  other  architects  save, 
possibly,  the  Egyptians.  They  did  not  build  walls 
of  odds  and  ends  of  stone  with  mortar  plastered 
between;  they  did  not  face  their  building  stones  to 
look  pretty  outside  and  fiU  in  behind  with  chips  and 
mortar,  mostly  mortar.  They  took  the  biggest 
blocks  of  stone  they  could  find,  squared  them,  faced 
them  perfectly  on  all  sides,  and  laid  them  one  on  top 
of  the  other  in  such  height  and  in  such  thickness  as 
they  deemed  necessary  for  a  lasting  job.  Work  like 
that  does  not  take  an  account  of  time.  The  mortar 
did  not  cnmible  from  between  them  with  the  cen- 
turies. There  was  none  to  crumble.  The  per- 
fectly level,  perfectly  matched  stones  required  no 
cementing  or  plaster  patching.  You  cannot  to-day 
insert  a  thin  knife  blade  between  these  matched 
stones. 

The  Pont  du  Gard  is  yellow  in  tone  and  the  long 
span  against  the  blue  sky  is  startlingly  effective.  A 
fine  clear  stream  flows  under  it,  the  banks  are  wild 
with  rock  and  shrub,  the  lower  arches  frame  land- 
scape  bits   near   or  more  distant.      I  don't   know 


THE  ROAD  TO  PONT  DU  CARD    i8i 

why  I  am  trying  to  describe  it — I  feel  that  I  am 
dwarfing  it,  somehow — making  it  commonplace.  It 
is  so  immense — so  overwhelming  to  gaze  upon. 
Henry  James  discovered  in  it  a  "certain  stupidity, 
a  vague  brutality."  I  judge  it  seemed  too  positive, 
too  absolute,  too  Uteral  and  everlasting  for  the  author 
of  the  Golden  Bowl.  He  adds,  however,  that  "it 
would  be  a  great  injustice  not  to  insist  upon  its 
beauty."  One  must  be  careful  not  to  do  injustice 
to  the  Pont  du  Gard. 

We  made  our  Itmclieon  camp  a  little  way  from  the 
clear  stream,  and  brought  water  from  it  and  cooked 
eggs  and  made  coffee  (but  we  carry  bottled  water 
for  that),  and  loafed  in  the  May  sun  and  shade,  and 
looked  at  that  unique  world-wonder  for  an  hour  or 
more.  The  Joy  discovered  a  fine  school  of  fish  in 
the  stream — trout,  maybe. 

A  hundred  years  ago  and  more  the  lower  arches  of 
the  Pont  du  Gard  were  widened  to  make  a  bridge, 
and  when  at  last  we  were  packed  and  loaded  again 
we  drove  across  this  bridge  for  the  nearer  view.  It 
was  quite  impossible  to  believe  in  the  age  of  the 
structure — its  preservation  was  so  perfect.  We  drove 
to  the  other  end  and,  turning,  drove  slowly  back. 
Then  hngeringly  we  left  that  supreme  relic  in  the 
loneliness  where,  somehow,  it  seemed  to  belong,  and 
followed  the  broad  white  road  to  Nimes.  There  is 
a  Roman  arena  at  Nlmes,  and  a  temple  and  baths — 
the  Romans  built  many  such  things;  but  I  think 
they  could  have  built  only  one  Pont  du  Gard. 


Chapter  IX 

THE   LUXURY   OF   NIMES 

WHEN  the  Romans  captured  a  place  and  estab- 
lished themselves  in  it  they  generally  built,  first 
an  Arch  of  Triumph  in  celebration  of  their  victory; 
then  an  arena  and  a  theater  for  pleasure;  finally  a 
temple  for  worship.  Sometimes,  when  they  really 
favored  the  place  and  made  it  a  resort,  they  con- 
structed baths.  I  do  not  find  that  they  built  an  Arch 
of  Triumph  at  Nimes,  but  they  built  an  arena,  baths, 
and  a  temple,  for  they  still  stand.  The  temple  is 
the  smallest.  It  is  called  the  "Maison  Carr6e,"  and 
it  is  much  like  the  temple  we  saw  at  Vienne  that 
day  in  the  rain,  but  in  a  finer  state  of  preserva- 
tion. Indeed,  it  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  best  pre- 
served Roman  temples  in  existence.  It  is  graceful 
and  exquisite,  and  must  have  suited  Henry  James, 
who  did  not  care  for  Roman  arenas  because  they  are 
not  graceful  and  exquisite,  as  if  anything  built  for 
arena  purposes  would  be  likely  to  be  anything  less 
than  soHd  and  everlasting.  We  did  not  go  into  the 
Maison  Carr6e.  It  is  a  museimi  now,  and  the  fact 
that  it  has  also  been  used  as  a  warehouse  and  stable 
somehow  discouraged  us.  It  would  be  too  much 
done  over.     But  the  outside  was  fascinating. 

We  thought  the  garden  of  the  Roman  baths  and 
fotmtain  would  be  well  to  see  in  the  evening.    We 


THE  LUXURY  OF  NIMES  183 

drove  along  the  quay  by  the  side  of  the  walled  river 
which  flows  down  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  came 
to  the  gates  of  the  garden  and,  leaving  the  car,  entered. 

At  first  it  seemed  quite  impossible  to  believe  that 
a  modem  city  of  no  great  size  or  importance  should 
have  anything  so  beautiful  as  this  garden,  or,  having , 
it,  should  preserve  it  in  such  serene  beauty  and 
harmony.  But  then  one  remembered  that  this  was 
France,  and  of  France  it  was  the  Provence  and  not 
really  a  part  of  the  sordid,  scrambling  world  at  all. 

It  is  a  garden  of  terraces  and  of  waterways  and  of 
dim,  lucent  pools  to  which  stairways  descend,  and  of 
cypresses,  graying  statuary,  and  marble  bridges  and 
fluted  balustrades;  and  the  water  is  green  and  mys- 
terious, and  there  is  a  background  of  dark,  wooded 
hills,  with  deep  recesses  and  lost  paths.  We  climbed 
part  way  up  the  hillside  and  found  a  place  where 
we  could  look  out  on  the  scene  below.  In  the  fading 
light  it  seemed  a  place  of  enchantment. 

It  is  not  easy  to  tell  what  part  of  this  garden  the 

Romans  built  and  what  was  added  from  time  to 

time  during  the  centuries.     It  seems  to  have  been 

Uberally  reconstructed  a  hundred  or  so  years  ago,  and 

the  statuary  is  none  of  it  of  the  Ronian  period.     But 

if  there  was  ever  any  incongruity  the  blurring  hand 

of  time  has  left  it  invisible  to  our  unpracticed  eyes. 

We  lingered  in  this  magic  garden,  and  spoke  softly 

of  the  generations  that  for  nineteen  centuries  have 

foimd  their  recreation  there,  and  we  turned  often 

for  a  last  look,  reluctant  to  leave  something  that 

seemed  likely  to  vanish  the  moment  one  turned  away. 

Our  hotel  was  on  the  square  in  which  stands  the 
13 


i84        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

arena,  so  that  it  was  but  a  step  away  at  any  time. 
We  paid  it  one  thorough  visit,  and  sat  in  the 
seats,  and  scaled  the  upper  heights,  and  looked  down 
on  the  spot  where  tragedy  and  horror  had  been 
employed  as  means  of  pleasure  for  a  good  portion  of 
the  world's  history.  I  am  sorry  the  Provence  is 
still  rather  cruel  minded,  though  I  believe  they  do 
not  always  kill  the  bull  now  in  the  Sunday-afternoon 
fights.  It  is  only  a  few  times  in  each  season  that 
they  have  a  fight  to  the  death.  They  had  one  the 
Stmday  before  our  arrival,  according  to  the  bills  still 
posted  at  the  entrance.  In  the  regular  Sunday 
games  anyone  has  the  privilege  of  snatching  a  bow  of 
red  ribbon  from  the  bull's  forehead.  I  had  a  fever 
to  try  it,  but,  this  being  only  Tuesday,  it  did  not 
seem  worth  while  to  wait. 

On  the  whole  I  think  we  did  not  find  the  arena  at 
Nlmes  as  interesting  as  the  one  at  Aries,  perhaps 
because  we  had  seen  Aries  first.  It  is  somewhat 
smaller  than  the  Aries  circus,  and  possibly  not  so 
well  preserved,  but  it  is  of  majestic  proportions,  and 
the  huge  layers  of  stone,  laid  without  cement  in  the 
Roman  fashion,  have  never  moved  except  where 
Vandal  and  Saracen  and  the  building  bishops  have 
laid  despoiling  hands. 

Not  all  the  interest  of  Nimes  is  ancient;  Alphonse 
Daudet  was  bom  in  Nimes,  and  the  city  has  set  up 
a  statue  and  named  a  street  in  his  honor.  Daudet's 
birthplace  is  not  on  the  street  that  bears  his  name, 
but  on  the  Boulevard  Gambetta,  one  of  the  wide 
thoroughfares.  Daudet's  house  is  a  part  of  the 
Bourse  du  Commerce  now,  and  I  do  not  think  it 


THE  LUXURY  OF  NiMES  185 

was  ever  the  "habitation  commode,  tout  omhrag6e  de 
plantanes**  of  which  he  writes  so  fondly  in  Le  Petit 
Chose — the  book  which  we  have  been  told  is,  in  part, 
at  least,  his  own  history.  There  is  nothing  now  to 
indicate  that  it  was  ever  the  birthplace  of  anyone, 
except  the  plaque  at  the  door,  and  as  we  sat  reading 
this  we  realized  that  by  a  coincidence  we  had  come 
at  a  fortunate  time.  The  plaque  said,  "Bom  May 
13,  1840."  Now,  seventy-four  years  later,  the  date 
was  the  same.    It  was  the  poet's  birthday! 


Chapter  X 

THROUGH  THE   CEVENNES 

'X'HE  drowsy  Provence,  with  its  vineyard  slopes  and 
-'•  poppied  fields,  warm  lighted  and  still,  is  akin  to 
Paradise.  But  the  same  Provence,  on  a  windy  day, 
with  the  chalk  dust  of  its  white  roads  enveloping  one 
in  opaque  blinding  clouds,  suggests  Sherman's  defi- 
nition of  war.  We  got  a  taste  of  this  aspect  leaving 
Nimes  on  our  way  north.  The  roads  were  about 
perfect,  hard  and  smooth,  but  they  were  white  with 
dust,  and  the  wind  did  blow.  I  have  forgotten 
whether  it  was  the  mistral  or  the  tramontane,  and  I 
do  not  think  it  matters.  It  was  just  wind — such 
wind  as  I  used  to  meet  a  long  time  ago  in  Kansas. 

Our  first  town  was  Alais,  but  when  we  inquired 
about  Alai,  according  to  the  French  rule  of  pronun- 
ciation, they  corrected  us  and  said  Alais — sounding 
the  s.  That  is  Provencal,  I  take  it,  or  an  exception 
to  the  rule.  Alais  itself  was  of  no  importance,  but 
along  the  way  there  were  villages  perched  on  hilltops, 
with  castles  crowning  the  high  central  points,  all  as 
picturesque  and  mediaeval  as  anything  well  could  be. 
We  were  always  tempted  to  go  up  to  them,  but  the 
climb  was  likely  to  be  steep ;  then  those  villages  seen 
from  the  inside  might  not  be  as  poetry-picturelike 
as  when  viewed  from  below,  looking  up  an  orchard 
slope  to  their  weathered  balconies  and  vine-hung  walls. 


THROUGH  THE  C£VENNES  187 

We  were  in  the  C^vennes  about  as  soon  as  we  had 
passed  Alais.  The  C^vennes  are  mountains — not 
mere  hills,  hut  towering  heights,  with  roads  that 
wind  and  writhe  up  them  in  a  multipUcity  of  con- 
volutions, though  always  on  perfect  grade,  always 
beautiful,  bringing  to  view  deep  vistas  and  wide 
expanses  at  every  turn. 

There  was  little  wind  now — the  hills  took  care  of 
that — and  we  were  warm  and  comfortable  and  happy 
in  this  fair,  lonely  land.  There  were  few  habita- 
tions of  any  kind;  no  automobiles;  seldom  even  a 
cart.  Water  was  scarce,  too;  it  was  hard  to  find  a 
place  to  replenish  our  bottles.  But  we  came  at  last 
to  a  cabin  in  the  woods — a  sort  of  wayside  caf6  it 
proved — where  a  woman  sold  us  half  a  liter  of  red 
wine  for  about  five  cents,  and  supplied  us  with  spring 
water  free.  A  little  farther  along,  where  the  road 
widened  a  bit,  we  halted  for  luncheon.  On  one  side 
a  steep  ascent,  wooded,  on  the  other  a  rather  abrupt 
slope,  grass-covered  and  shady  with  interspaced 
trees.  By  and  by  we  noticed  that  all  the  trees  were 
of  one  variety — chestnut.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  chestnut 
orchard,  and  proclaimed  the  industry  of  this  remote 
land.  We  saw  many  such  during  the  afternoon; 
probably  the  district  is  populous  enough  diuing  the 
chestnut  harvest. 

Through  the  long  afternoon  we  went  winding 
upward  among  those  impeopled  hills,  meeting  almost 
nothing  in  the  way  of  human  life,  passing  through 
but  one  village,  Grenolhac,  too  small  even  to  be  set 
down  in  the  road  book.  In  fact,  the  first  place  men- 
tioned beyond  Alais  was  Villefort,  with  a  small  pop- 


i88         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Illation  and  one  inn,  a  hostelry  indicated  in  the  book 
merely  by  a  little  wineglass,  and  not  by  one  of  the 
tiny  houses  which,  in  their  varied  sizes,  picture  the 
recommended  hotels  and  the  relative  importance 
thereof.  There  was  no  mention  of  rooms  in  con- 
nection with  the  Caf6  Marius  Balme;  the  outlook 
for  accommodation  overnight  was  not  very  cheerful. 
It  was  chilly,  too,  for  evening  was  closing  in  and 
we  were  well  up  in  the  air.  The  prospect  of  camping 
by  the  roadside,  or  even  of  sitting  up  in  a  cafe  until 
morning,  did  not  attract  a  person  of  my  years,  though 
Narcissa  and  the  Joy  declared  that  to  build  a  camp 
fire  and  roll  up  in  the  steamer  rugs  would  be  "lovely." 
As  there  were  only  three  rugs,  I  could  see  that  some- 
body was  going  to  be  overlooked  in  the  arrangement; 
besides,  a  night  in  the  mountains  in  May,  let  it  begin 
ever  so  gayly,  is  pretty  sure  to  develop  doubtful 
features  before  morning.  I  have  done  some  camp- 
ing in  my  time,  and  I  have  never  been  able  to  get 
together  enough  steamer  rugs  to  produce  a  really 
satisfactory  warmth  at,  say,  three  or  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  when  the  frost  is  embroidering  the 
bushes  and  the  stars  have  a  glitter  that  drills  into 
your  very  marrow.  Langogne,  the  first  town  marked 
with  a  hotel,  was  at  least  thirty-five  miles  farther 
along,  and  I  could  tell  by  the  crinkly  look  of  the  road 
as  it  appeared  on  our  map  that  it  was  no  night  excur- 
sion. Presently  we  descended  into  a  sort  of  gorge, 
and  there  was  Villefort,  an  isolated,  ancient  little 
hamlet  forgotten  among  the  C^vennes  hilltops.  We 
came  to  an  open  space  and  there,  sure  enough,  was 
the   Caf6   Balme,   and   by   the   side   of   it,    happy 


THROUGH  THE  CfiVENNES  189 

vision,  another  little  building  with  the  sign  "H6tel 
Bahne." 

It  was  balm  indeed.  To  my  faithful  inquiry, 
"Vous  avez  des  chatnbres?"  Yes,  they  had  chambers 
— they  were  across  the  open  square,  over  the  garage 
— that  is  to  say,  the  stable — if  the  monsieur  and  his 
party  would  accept  them. 

* '  Oui,  certainement! '  * 

They  were  not  luxurious — they  were  just  bare 
boxes,  but  they  were  clean,  with  comfortable  beds, 
and,  dear  me!  how  inviting  on  this  particularly  chilly 
evening,  when  one  has  put  in  most  of  the  day  climb- 
ing narrow,  circuitous  moimtain  roads — one-sided — 
that  is  to  say,  one  side  a  wall,  the  other  faUing  off 
into  tmknown  space. 

They  were  very  quiet  rooms,  for  we  had  the  place 
to  ourselves.  The  car  would  sleep  just  under  us, 
and  we  had  a  feeling  of  being  nomads,  the  kind  that 
put  up  in  bams  and  empty  buildings.  A  better  place 
could  hardly  have  made  us  happier,  and  a  better 
dinner  than  we  had  could  not  be  produced  anywhere. 
There  was  soup — French  soup;  hot  fried  trout,  taken 
that  day  from  the  moimtain  streams;  then  there  was 
omelet  of  the  freshest  eggs,  served  so  hot  that  one 
must  wait  for  it  to  cool;  also  a  dish  of  veal  of  the 
same  temperature  and  of  such  tenderness  that  you 
could  cut  it  with  a  fork;  and  there  was  steak  which 
we  scarcely  touched,  and  a  salad,  and  fruit  and  cakes 
and  camembert  cheese,  with  imlimited  wine  through- 
out. How  could  they  give  a  dinner  like  that,  and  a 
good  bed,  and  coffee  and  rolls  with  jam  next  morn- 
ing, all  for  four  francs — that  is,  eighty  cents,  each? 


190         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

I  will  tell  you :  they  did  their  own  cooking,  and  were 
lost  so  far  in  the  mountains  that  they  had  not  yet 
heard  of  the  "high  cost  of  living."  And  if  I  have 
not  mentioned  it  before,  I  wish  to  say  here  that  all 
the  red  road-book  hotels  are  good,  however  small 
or  humble  they  appear.  Indeed,  I  am  inclined  to 
believe  that  all  French  hotels  are  good — at  least  that 
they  have  good  food  and  beds.  With  the  French, 
to  have  good  beds  and  good  food  is  a  religion. 

You  notice  I  do  not  mention  the  coffee.  That  is 
because  it  is  not  real  coffee.  It  is — I  don't  quite 
know  what  it  is.  In  the  large  hotels  it  merely  looks 
like  coffee.  In  these  small  inns  it  looks  like  a  dark, 
ominous  soup  and  tastes  like  that  as  much  as  any- 
thing. Also,  it  is  not  served  in  cups,  but  bowls,  por- 
ridge bowls,  with  spoons  to  match,  and  the  natives 
break  chunks  of  bread  in  it  and  thus  entirely  carry 
out  the  soup  idea.  This  is  the  French  conception  of 
coffee  in  the  remoter  districts,  but  the  bread  and 
jam  or  honey  that  go  with  it  are  generally  good  and 
plentiful,  and  I  suppose  the  fearful  drink  itself  must 
be  wholesome.  One  hears  a  good  deal  in  America 
of  deHcious  French  coffee,  but  the  only  place  to  get 
it  is  in  America,  in  New  Orleans,  say,  or  New  York. 
I  have  never  found  any  really  good  coffee  even  in 
Paris. 

I  think  not  many  travelers  visit  the  C^vennes. 
The  road  across  the  moimtains  from  Nimes  toward 
Paris  seemed  totally  imtraversed,  at  least  so  far  as 
tourists  are  concerned.  No  English  is  spoken  any- 
where— ^not  a  word.  This  was  France — not  the 
France  that  is  Paris,  which  is  not  France  at  all  any 


THROUGH  THE  CEVENNES      191 

more  than  New  York  City  is  America,  but  the  France 
which  is  a  blending  of  race  and  environment — of  soil 
and  sky  and  human  struggle  into  a  imified  whole 
that  is  not  much  concerned  with  the  world  at  large, 
and  from  generation  to  generation  does  not  greatly 
change. 

One  may  suppose,  for  instance,  that  the  market 
at  Villefort,  which  we  saw  next  morning,  was  very 
much  what  it  was  a  himdred  years  ago — that  the 
same  sturdy  women  in  black  dresses  and  curious  hats 
had  carried  the  same  little  bleating  kids,  one  under 
each  arm — that  trout  and  strawberries  and  cheese 
and  cherries  and  all  the  products  of  that  moimtain 
district  were  offered  there,  aroimd  the  old  stone 
fountain,  in  the  same  baskets  imder  the  shadow  of 
the  same  walls,  with  so  Httle  difference  in  the  gen- 
eral aspect  that  a  photograph,  if  one  could  have 
been  taken  then,  might  be  placed  beside  the  ones 
we  made  and  show  no  difference  in  the  fashion  of 
things  at  all. 

We  bought  some  of  the  strawberries,  great  deli- 
cious dewy  ones,  and  Narcissa  and  the  Joy  wanted 
to  buy  one  or  even  a  dozen  of  the  poor  little  kids, 
offering  to  hold  them  in  their  laps  constantly.  But 
I  knew  that  presently  I  should  be  holding  one  or 
more  of  those  kids  in  my  own  lap  and  I  was  afraid  I 
could  not  do  that  and  drive  with  safety.  I  said  that 
some  day  when  we  had  time  we  would  build  a  wooden 
cage  on  wheels  to  put  behind  the  car  and  gradually 
collect  a  menagerie,  but  that  I  was  afraid  we  didn't 
have  time  just  now.    We  must  be  getting  on. 

Oiu"  landlady  was  a  good  soul.     She  invited  us 


192         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

into  the  kitchen,  neat,  trim,  and  shining,  and  showed 
us  some  trout  caught  that  morning,  and  offered  to 
give  us  a  mess  to  take  along.  The  entire  force  of 
the  hotel  assembled  to  see  us  go.  It  consisted  of 
herself  and  her  daughter,  our  waitress  of  the  night 
before.  Out  bill  was  sixteen  francs.  The  old  life 
— the  simple  life — of  France  had  not  yet  departed 
from  Villefort. 


Chapter  XI 

INTO  THE   AUVERGNE 

WE  had  climbed  two  thousand  feet  from  Ntmes 
to  reach  Villefort  and  thought  we  were  about 
on  the  top  of  the  ridge.  But  that  was  a  mistake; 
we  started  up  again  ahnost  as  soon  as  we  left,  and 
climbed  longer  hills,  higher  and  steeper  hills,  than 
ever.  Not  that  they  were  bad  roads,  for  the  grades 
were  perfect,  but  they  did  seem  endless  and  they  were 
still  one-sided  roads,  with  a  drop  into  space  just  a 
few  feet  away,  not  always  with  protecting  walls. 
Still  there  was  little  danger,  if  one  did  not  get  too 
much  interested  in  the  scenery,  which  was  beyond 
anjrthing  for  its  limitless  distances,  its  wide  spaces 
and  general  grandeur. 

Whenever  we  got  to  a  level  spot  I  stopped  the  car 
to  look  at  it  while  the  engine  cooled.  It  is  a  good 
plan  to  stop  the  car  when  one  wishes  really  to  admire 
natiwe.  The  middle  of  the  road  ahead  is  thought 
to  be  the  best  place  for  the  driver  to  look  while  skirt- 
ing a  moimtainside. 

To  return  to  roads  just  for  a  moment,  there  were 
miles  of  that  winding  lofty  way,  apparently  cut 
out  of  the  soUd  face  of  the  mountain,  through  a 
country  almost  entirely  iminhabited — a  rocky,  barren 
land  that  could  never  be  populous.  How  can  the 
French  afford  those  roads — how  can  they  pay  for 


194         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

them  and  keep  them  in  condition?  I  was  always 
expecting  to  meet  a  car  on  the  short  high  turns,  and 
kept  the  horn  going,  but  never  a  car,  never  a  car- 
riage— only  now  and  then  a  cart,  usually  the  stone- 
cart  of  some  one  mending  the  roads.  The  building 
and  engineering  of  those  roads  seems  to  me  even  a 
greater  marvel  than  the  architecture  of  cathedrals 
and  chateaux.  They  are  as  curly  and  crooked  as  a 
vine,  but  they  ascend  and  descend  with  a  precision 
of  scale  that  makes  climbing  them  a  real  diversion. 
We  ascended  those  hills  on  high  speed — aU  of  them. 

We  were  about  at  the  snow  line  now.  We  could 
see  it  but  a  little  way  higher  up,  and  if  the  weather 
had  not  been  so  bright  and  still  we  should  have  been 
cold.  Once  we  saw  what  we  took  to  be  a  snowbank 
just  ahead  by  the  roadside.  But  when  we  came 
nearer  we  saw  it  was  narcissus,  growing  there  wild; 
later  we  saw  whole  fields  of  it.  It  flourished  up  there 
as  the  poppies  did  lower  down. 

The  country  was  not  all  barren.  There  were 
stretches  of  fertile  mountain-top,  with  pastures  and 
meadows  and  occasional  habitations.  Now  and 
then  on  some  high  point  we  saw  a  village  clustering 
about  an  ancient  tower.  Once — it  was  at  Preven- 
ch^res,  a  tiny  village  of  the  Auvergne — ^we  stopped 
and  bought  eggs  and  bread.  There  were  also  a  few 
picture  postals  to  be  had  there,  and  they  showed  the 
Bourree,  which  is  a  native  dance  of  the  Auvergne — 
a  rather  rough  country  caf6  dance,  I  gathered,  but 
picturesque,  in  the  native  costume.  I  wish  we  might 
have  seen  it. 

The  mountains  dwindled  to  hills,  humanity  became 


INTO  THE  AUVERGNE  195 

more  plentiful.  It  was  an  open,  wind-swept  country 
now — rolling  and  fruitful  enough,  but  barren  of 
trees;  also,  as  a  rule,  barren  of  houses.  The  people 
live  in  the  villages  and  their  industry  would  seem  to 
be  almost  entirely  pasturage — that  is,  cattle  raising. 
I  have  never  seen  finer  cattle  than  we  saw  in  the 
Auvergne,  and  I  have  never  seen  more  iminviting, 
dirtier  villages.  Bams  and  houses  were  one.  There 
were  no  dooryards,  and  the  cattle  owned  the  streets. 
A  village,  in  fact,  was  a  mere  cattle  yard.  I  judge 
there  are  few  more  discouraging-looking  commu- 
nities, more  sordid-looking  people,  than  in  just  that 
section.  But  my  guess  is  that  they  are  a  mighty 
prosperous  lot  and  have  money  stuffed  in  the  savings 
bank.  It  is  a  further  guess  that  they  are  the  people 
that  Zola  wrote  of  in  La  Terre.  Of  cotu"se  there  was 
nothing  that  looked  like  a  hotel  or  an  inn  in  any  of 
those  places.  One  could  not  imagine  a  French  hotel 
in  the  midst  of  such  a  nightmare. 


Chapter  XII 

LE  PUY 

/^NE  of  the  finest  things  about  a  French  city  is  the 
^— ^  view  of  it  from  afar  off.  Le  Puy  is  especially 
distinguished  in  this  regard.  You  approach  it  from 
the  altitudes  and  you  see  it  lying  in  a  basin  formed 
by  the  hills,  gleaming,  picturesque,  many  spired — in 
fact,  beautiful.  The  evening  sim  was  upon  it  as  we 
approached,  which,  I  think,  gave  it  an  added  charm. 

We  were  coasting  slowly  down  into  this  sunset  city 
when  we  noticed  some  old  women  in  front  of  a  cottage, 
making  lace.  We  had  reached  the  lacemaking  dis- 
trict of  the  Auvergne.  We  stopped  and  examined 
their  work  and  eventually  bought  some  of  it  and 
photographed  them  and  went  on  down  into  the  city. 
Every  little  way  other  old  women  in  front  of  himible 
cottages  were  weaving  lace.  How  their  fingers  did 
make  the  little  bobbins  fly ! 

I  had  never  heard  of  a  puy  (pronoimced  "pwee") 
before  we  went  to  the  Auvergne  and  I  should  never 
have  guessed  what  it  was  from  its  name.  A  puy  is 
a  natural  spire,  or  cone,  of  volcanic  stone,  shooting 
straight  up  into  the  air  for  several  hundred  or  several 
thousand  feet,  often  slim  and  with  perpendicular 
sides.  Perhaps  we  should  call  them  "needles."  I 
seem  to  remember  that  we  have  something  of  the 
kind  in  Arizona  known  by  that  name. 


LE  PUY  197 

The  Auvergne  has  been  a  regular  puy  factory  in 
its  time.  It  was  in  the  Quaternary  era,  and  they 
were  volcanic  chimneys  in  the  day  of  their  first  use- 
fuhiess.  Later — a  good  deal  later — probably  several 
million  years,  when  those  flues  from  the  lower  regions 
had  become  filled  up  and  soHdified,  pious  persons 
began  building  churches  on  the  tops  of  them,  which 
would  seem  pretty  hazardous,  for  if  one  of  those 
chimneys  ever  took  a  notion  to  blow  out,  it  would 
certainly  lift  the  church  sky  high.  Here  at  Le  Puy 
the  chimney  that  gives  it  its  name  is  a  slender  cone 
two  himdred  and  eighty  feet  high,  with  what  is  said 
to  be  a  curious  tenth-century  church  on  the  very  tip 
of  it.  We  were  willing  to  take  it  for  granted.  There 
are  about  five  himdred  steps  to  climb,  and  there  is  a 
good  deal  of  climbing  in  Le  Puy  besides  that  item. 
We  looked  up  to  it,  and  across  to  it,  and  later — 
when  we  were  leaving — down  to  it  from  another 
higher  point.  I  don't  know  why  churches  should  be 
put  in  such  inconvenient  places — to  test  piety,  maybe. 
I  am  naturally  a  pious  person,  but  when  I  think  of 
the  piety  that  has  labored  up  and  down  those  steps 
through  rain  and  shine  and  cold  and  heat  for  a  thou- 
sand years  I  suffer. 

We  did  climb  the  stair  of  the  cathedral  of  Notre 
Dame  de  Puy,  which  sweeps  upward  in  broad  majesty, 
Uke  a  ladder  to  heaven.  There  are  over  a  hundred 
steps,  and  they  were  originally  designed  so  the  over- 
flow congregation  could  occupy  them  and  look  into 
the  church  and  see  the  officiating  priest.  An  archi- 
tectural change  has  made  this  impossible  to-day,  so 
perhaps  the  congregation  no  longer  overflows.     In 


198        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

fact,  there  was  a  time  when  great  pilgrimages  were 
made  to  Notre  Dame  du  Puy,  and  it  was  then  that 
the  steps  were  filled.  There  are  Httle  shops  on  each 
rise  of  this  great  flight — ^ascending  with  it — shops 
where  reUgious  charms  and  the  like  are  sold.  At 
the  earlier  period  the  merchants  displayed  their  wares 
on  small  tables,  and  the  street  is  called  Rtte  des  Tables 
to  this  day. 

The  church  is  built  of  black  and  white  stone,  and 
has  a  curiously  Turkish  look.  It  all  seems  very 
foreign  to  France,  and  indeed  the  whole  place  was 
not  imlike  a  mosque,  though  more  somber,  less 
inviting.  It  was  built  in  the  twelfth  century,  and 
imder  its  porch  are  two  of  the  original  cedar  doors, 
with  Latin  inscriptions. 

I  am  sure  Le  Puy  is  a  religious  place.  On  every 
high  point  there  is  a  church  or  a  saint,  or  something 
inspiring.  A  statue  of  Notre  Dame  de  France  is  on 
the  highest  point  of  all,  four  himdred  and  thirty-five 
feet  above  the  town.  This  statue  was  cast  from  the 
metal  of  two  himdred  Russian  cannons  taken  at 
Sebastopol.  You  can  ascend  to  it  by  some  six  or 
seven  himdred  steps  cut  in  the  solid  rock.  We  did 
not  go  up  there,  either.  Even  the  statement  that 
we  could  ascend  another  flight  of  steps  inside  the 
statue  and  stand  in  its  very  head  did  not  tempt  us. 
Americans  have  been  spoiled  for  these  things.  The 
lift  has  made  loafers  of  us  all. 

What  I  think  we  enjoyed  most  in  Le  Puy  was  its 
lacemakers.  At  every  turn,  in  every  little  winding 
street,  one  saw  them — singly  and  in  groups;  they 
were  at  the  front  of  every  door.    They  were  of  all 


LE  PUY  199 

ages,  but  mainly,  I  think,  they  were  old  women. 
Many  of  them  wore  the  Auvergne  costume — quaint 
hats  or  caps,  and  little  shawls,  and  wooden  shoes. 
Lacemaking  is  the  industry  of  the  Haute-Loire  dis- 
trict, and  is  said  to  employ  ninety  thousand  women. 
I  think  that  is  an  tmderestimate.  It  seemed  to  me 
we  saw  as  many  as  that  ourselves  in  front  of  those 
mediaeval  doorways  of  Le  Puy. 

14 


Chapter  XIII 


THE   CENTER   OP   FRANCE 


TT  is  grand  driving  from  Le  Puy  northward  toward 
*  Clermont-Ferrand  and  Vichy.  It  is  about  the 
geographical  center  of  France,  an  imspoiled,  pros- 
perous-looking land.  Many  varieties  of  coimtry 
are  there — plain,  fertile  field,  rich  upland  slopes.  All 
the  way  it  is  picture  coimtry — such  country  as  we 
have  seen  in  the  pictures  and  seldom  believed  in 
before.  Cultivated  areas  in  great  squares  and  strips, 
fields  of  flowers — red,  blue,  white — the  French  colors; 
low  solid-looking  hills,  with  little  cities  halfway  to 
the  summit,  and  always,  or  nearly  always,  a  castle 
or  two  in  their  midst;  winding,  shining  rivers  with 
gray-stone  bridges  over  them,  the  bright  water  appear- 
ing and  reappearing  at  every  high  tiim. 

Our  road  made  no  spedal  attempt  to  reach  the 
towns.  We  viewed  them  from  a  distance,  and  there 
were  narrower  roads  that  turned  in  their  direction, 
but  our  great  national  highway — ^it  was  No.  9  now — 
was  not  intended  for  their  special  accommodation. 
When  it  did  reach  a  town  it  was  likely  to  be  a  mili- 
tary center,  with  enormous  barracks — ^new,  many  of 
them — ^like  those  at  Issoire,  a  queer  old  place  where 
we  spent  the  night  and  where  I  had  a  real  adventure. 

It  was  my  custom  to  carry  under  the  back  seat  a 


THE  CENTER  OF  FRANCE  201 

bottle  of  Scotch  whisky  in  event  of  severe  iUness, 
or  in  case  of  acute  motor  trouble.  For  reasons  I  do 
not  at  the  moment  recall — perhaps  the  cork  had 
leaked — our  supply  seemed  low  at  Issoire,  and  I 
decided  to  see  what  I  could  find.  I  had  Httle  hope, 
for  in  France  even  the  word  "whisky"  is  seldom 
recognized.  Still,  I  would  make  diligent  inquiry, 
our  case  being  pretty  desperate.  There  was  not 
enough  in  the  bottle  to  last  till  morning — I  mean, 
of  coiirse,  in  case  anything  serious  should  happen. 

I  had  the  usual  experience  at  the  cafes.  The 
attendants  repeated  the  word  "whisky"  vaguely,  and 
in  various  ways,  and  offered  me  all  sorts  of  gayly 
tinted  liquids  which  I  did  not  think  would  cure 
anything  I  was  likely  to  have.  I  tried  a  drug  store, 
where  a  gentle  pharmacist  listened  awhile  to  my 
French,  then  dug  out  from  the  back  of  a  lower  drawer 
a  circular  on  Esperanto.     Imagine ! 

I  was  about  ready  to  give  it  up  when  I  happened 
to  notice  a  low,  dim  shop  the  shelves  of  which  seemed 
filled  with  fancy  bottles.  The  place  had  an  ancient, 
mellow  look,  but  I  could  see  at  a  glance  that  its 
Hquids  were  too  richly  colored  for  my  taste — needs, 
I  mean.     I  could  try,  however. 

The  Httle  gray  man  who  waited  on  me  pronounced 
the  word  in  several  ways  and  scratched  his  head. 

^'Wisky,''  he  said,  "visky — viskee!" 

Then  he  seemed  to  explode.  A  second  later  he 
was  digging  a  dusty  book  out  of  a  dusty  pile,  and  in 
a  moment  was  rtmning  his  fingers  down  a  yellow 
page.  I  dare  say  it  was  an  old  stock  list,  for  sud- 
d^y  he  started  up,  ran  to  a  dark,  remote  shelf, 


202         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

pulled  away  some  bottles,  and  from  the  deeper  back 
recesses  dragged  a  bottle  and  held  it  up  in  triumph. 

"Voild!"  he  said,  "veeskee!     Veeskee  Eereesh!" 

Shades  of  St.  Patrick!  It  was  old  Irish  whisky — 
old,  how  old — ^perhaps  laid  in  by  his  grandfather, 
for  a  possible  tourist,  a  hundred  years  before.  I 
tried  to  seem  calm — indifferent. 

"Encore?''  I  said. 

But  no,  there  was  no  encore— just  this  one.  The 
price,  oh  yes,  it  was  four  francs. 

Imagine! 

Issoire  is  a  quaint  place  and  interesting.  I  shall 
always  remember  it. 

To  motorists  Clermont-Ferrand  is  about  the  most 
important  city  in  France.  It  is  the  home  of  tire 
manufacturers,  and  among  them  the  great  benevolent 
one  that  suppHes  the  red  road  book,  and  any  desired 
special  information,  free.  We  felt  properly  grateful 
to  this  factory  and  drove  out  to  visit  it.  They  were 
very  good  to  us;  they  gave  us  a  brand-new  red-book 
and  a  green -book  for  Germany  and  Switzerland. 
The  factory  is  a  large  one,  and  needs  to  be.  About 
four-fifths  of  the  cars  of  Europe  go  rolling  along  on 
its  products,  while  their  owners,  without  exception, 
use  its  wonderfully  authentic  guides.  Each  year 
the  road  books  distributed  free  by  this  firm,  piled 
one  upon  the  other,  would  reach  to  a  height  of  more 
than  five  miles.  They  cover  about  all  the  countries, 
and  are  simply  priceless  to  the  motorist.  They  are 
amusing,  too.  The  fimny  fat  motor  man  made  of 
tires,  shown  in  Httle  marginal  drawings  and  tailpieces 
in  all  the  picturesque  dilemmas  of  the  road,  becomes 


THE  CENTER  OF  FRANCE  aoj 

a  wonderfully  real  personality  on  short  acquaintance. 
We  learned  to  love  the  merry  Michelin  man, 
and  never  grew  tired  of  sharing  his  joys  and 
misfortunes. 

Clermont-Ferrand  is  also  the  home  of  a  man  with 
two  wooden  legs  that  need  oiling.  I  know,  for  he 
conducted  us  to  the  cathedral,  and  his  joints  squeaked 
dismally  at  every  step.  I  said  I  would  go  back  to 
the  car  and  get  the  oil  can,  but  he  paid  no  attention 
to  the  suggestion.  He  also  objected  to  the  tip  I  gave 
him,  though  I  could  not  see  why  an  incomplete  guide 
like  that,  especially  one  not  in  good  repair,  should 
expect  double  rates.  Besides,  his  cathedral  was  not 
the  best.  It  was  not  built  of  real  stone,  but  of  blocks 
of  lava  from  the  puys  of  the  neighborhood. 

We  came  near  getting  into  trouble  descending  a 
hill  to  Vichy.  The  scene  there  was  very  beautiful. 
Vichy  and  the  river  and  valley  below  present  a  won- 
derful picture.  Absorbed  in  it,  I  was  only  dimly 
conscious  of  an  old  woman  trudging  along  at  our 
left,  and  did  not  at  all  notice  a  single  chicken  quite 
on  the  opposite  side.  In  any  case  I  could  not  well 
know  that  it  was  her  chicken,  or  that  it  was  so  valu- 
able that  she  would  risk  her  life  to  save  it.  She  was 
a  very  old  person — in  the  neighborhood  of  several 
hundred,  I  should  think,  wearing  an  improperly  short 
skirt,  her  legs  the  size  and  shape  of  a  tightly  folded 
timbrella,  terminating  below  in  the  largest  pair  of 
wooden  shoes  in  the  world.  Familiar  with  the 
habits  of  chickens,  she  probably  thought  her  property 
would  wait  till  we  were  opposite  and  then  start  to 
race  across  in  front  of  the  car.    To  prevent  this  she 


204         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

decided  to  do  it  herself!  Yet  I  suppose  if  I  had 
damaged  that  prehistoric  old  lady,  instead  of  missing 
her  by  the  breadth  of  half  a  hair,  her  relatives  would 
have  made  us  pay  for  her  at  fancy  rates. 

We  did  not  tarry  at  Vichy.  It  is  a  gay  place — 
styHsh  and  costly,  and  worth  seeing  a  little,  when 
one  can  drive  leisurely  through  its  clean,  handsome 
streets.  Perhaps  if  we  could  have  invented  any 
maladies  that  would  have  made  a  "cure"  necessary 
we  might  have  lingered  with  those  other  sallow, 
sad-eyed,  stylish-looking  people  who  collect  in  the 
pavilions  where  the  warm  healing  waters  come 
bubbling  up  and  are  dispensed  free  for  the  asking. 
But  we  are  a  healthy  lot,  and  not  stylish.  We  drove 
about  for  a  pleasant  hour,  then  followed  along  evening 
roads  to  St.  Germain  des  Fosses,  where  the  H6tel  du 
Pore  was  a  wayside  inn  of  our  kind,  with  clean, 
quiet  rooms,  good  food — and  prices,  oh,  very  moderate 
indeed!  But  I  do  wonder  why  garages  are  always 
put  in  such  inconvenient  places.  I  have  driven  in 
and  backed  out  of  a  good  many  in  my  time,  and  I 
cannot  now  recall  more  than  one  or  two  that  were 
not  tucked  away  in  an  alley  or  around  some  impos- 
sible comer,  making  it  necessary  to  scrape  and 
writhe  and  cringe  to  get  in  and  out  without  damag- 
ing something.  I  nearly  knocked  a  comer  from  an 
out-house  in  St.  Germain,  backing  out  of  its  free  and 
otherwise  satisfactory  garage. 


Chapter  XIV 

BETWEEN   BILLY  AND   BESSEY 

'T'O  those  tourists  who  are  looking  for  out-of-the-way 
"*■  comers  of  Europe  I  commend  Billy.  It  is  not 
pronounced  in  our  frivolous  way,  but  "Bee-yee," 
which  you  see  gives  it  at  once  the  French  dignity. 
I  call  Billy  "out-of-the-way"  because  we  saw  no 
toiuists  in  the  neighborhood,  and  we  had  never 
before  heard  of  the  place,  which  has  a  bare  three-line 
mention  in  Baedeker. 

Billy  is  on  the  AlHer,  a  beautiful  river,  and,  seen 
from  a  distance,  with  its  towering  ruin,  is  truly  pic- 
turesque. Of  course  the  old  castle  is  the  chief  feature 
of  Billy — a  ruin  of  great  extent,  and  unrestored !  The 
last  item  alone  makes  it  worth  seeing.  A  good  many 
of  the  ruins  of  France  have  been  restored  under  the 
direction  of  that  great  recreator  of  the  architectural 
past,  Viollet  le  Due,  who  has  done  his  work  supremely 
well  and  thoroughly — oh,  thoroughly,  no  name!  I 
am  glad  he  did  it,  for  it  means  preservation  for  the 
ages,  but  I  am  so  glad  that  there  is  now  and  then 
a  ruin  that 

Monsievir  V.  le  Due 
Hapi>ened  to  overlook. 

I  even  drift  into  bad  poetry  when  I  think  of  it. 
The  Chateau  de  Billy  seems  to  have  been  built 


2o6    THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

about  1232  by  one  of  the  sires  of  Bourbon  Robert 
of  Clermont,  son  of  St.  Louis,  to  control  the  river 
traffic.  It  was  a  massive  edifice  of  towers  and  bas- 
tions, and  walls  of  enormous  thickness.  A  good 
portion  of  the  walls  and  some  of  the  towers  still  stand. 
And  there  is  a  dungeon  into  which  no  light  or  air 
could  come,  once  used  to  convince  refractory  opposition. 
They  put  a  man  in  there  for  an  hour.  When  they 
took  him  out  he  was  either  convinced  or  dead,  and 
so,  in  either  case,  no  longer  troublesome. 

The  guardian  of  Billy  was  a  little  old  woman  as  pic- 
turesque as  the  ruins,  and  lived  in  a  little  house  across 
the  way,  as  picturesque  as  herself.  When  we  had 
seen  the  castle  she  let  us  look  into  her  house.  It 
consisted  of  just  one  small  room  with  a  tiny  stove 
in  one  comer  and  a  bed  in  the  other.  But  the  stove, 
with  its  accessories  of  pans  and  other  ware  all  so 
shining  and  neat,  and  her  tiny,  high-posted,  canopied 
bed  so  spotless  and  pretty  with  its  white  counter- 
pane and  gay  Httle  curtains,  set  us  to  wondering  why 
anybody  in  the  world  needed  a  home  more  ample  or 
attractive  than  that. 

It  seemed  amusing  to  us  that  the  name  of  the  next 
place  along  that  route  should  be  Bessey.  We  limched 
between  Billy  and  Bessey,  on  a  green  level  roadside, 
under  some  big  trees,  where  there  was  a  little  stream 
which  furnished  our  cooking  water.  It  is  not  always 
easy  to  select  the  luncheon  place.  A  dry  spot  with 
water  and  shade  is  not  everywhere  to  be  had,  and 
then  we  do  not  always  instantly  agree  on  the  con- 
veniences of  a  place,  and  while  we  are  discussing  it 
we  are  going  right  along  at  a  fifteen  or  twenty-mile 


BETWEEN  BILLY  AND  BESSEY  207 

rate  and  that  place  has  drifted  a  mile  or  two  behind 
before  the  conference  ends.  But  there  always  is  a  place 
somewhere  that  has  most  of  the  things  we  want,  and 
it  lies  around  the  next  turn  or  over  the  next  hill,  and 
it  is  always  so  new  and  strange  and  foreign,  so  away 
and  away  from  the  world  we  have  known,  so  inti- 
mately a  part  of  a  land  and  of  Hves  we  have  never 
seen  before  and  shall  never  see  again. 

A  gypsy  of  very  poor  class  came  along  while  we 
were  at  luncheon.  His  little  wagon-house  was  quite 
bare  of  furnishings.  The  man  walked  outside  beside 
the  meager  donkey — a  young  woman  with  a  baby 
sat  on  the  floor  in  the  wagon. 

Gypsies,  by  the  way,  are  an  institution  in  France. 
The  French  call  them  nomades,  and  provide  them 
with  special  ordinances  and  road  limitations.  At 
first,  when  we  saw  signs  "Limites  de  Nomades*'  in 
the  outskirts  of  villages  we  wondered  what  was 
meant,  and  did  not  associate  the  notice  with  the 
comfortable  and  sometimes  luxurious  house-wagons 
that  we  met  or  overtook,  or  found  solidly  established 
by  some  pleasant  waterside.  Then  it  dawned  upon 
us  that  these  gypsy  folk  were  the  nomades  and  that 
the  signs  were  provided  for  their  instruction. 

We  met  them,  presently,  everywhere.  France, 
with  its  level  roads  and  liberal  laws,  is  gypsy  heaven. 
A  house  on  wheels,  a  regular  little  flat,  with  parlor, 
bedroom  and  kitchen,  big  enough  to  hold  a  family 
and  its  belongings,  can  be  drawn  by  a  single  horse 
over  the  hard,  perfectly  graded  highways.  They 
work  north  in  the  summer,  no  doubt,  and  in  the 
autiunn  the  Midi  calls  them.    Every  little  way  we 


208         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

saw  them  camped,  working  at  their  basketry  or  some 
kindred  industry.  Not  all  the  villages  limit  them, 
and  often  we  found  them  located  in  the  midst  of  a 
busy  town.  I  do  not  think  they  do  any  harm,  and 
I  always  envied  them.  Some  of  their  little  houses 
are  so  cozy  and  neat,  with  tiny  lace  curtains  and 
flower  pots,  and  pictures  on  the  walls.  When  we 
first  saw  such  wagons  we  thought  they  belonged  to 
artists. 


Chapter  XV 

THE  HAUTB-LOIRB 

'T'HE  particular  day  of  which  I  am  now  writing  was 
^  Sunday,  and  when  we  came  to  MouUn,  the  ancient 
capital  of  the  Bourbonnais,  there  was  a  baptismal 
ceremony  going  on  in  the  cathedral;  the  old  sexton 
in  the  portico  outside  was  pulling  the  rope  that  led 
up  to  the  great  booming  bell.  He  could  pull  and 
talk  too,  and  he  told  us  that  the  bell  was  only  nmg 
for  baptisms,  at  least  that  was  what  we  thought  he 
said  as  he  flimg  himself  aloft  with  the  upward  sweep, 
and  alow  with  the  downward  sweep,  tmtil  his  chin 
nearly  touched  the  stone  floor.  I  got  into  the  swing 
of  it  directly,  and  signified  that  I  should  like  to  ring 
the  bell  a  little  myself.  I  realize  now  that  it  was 
decidedly  brazen  to  ask  to  assist  at  a  sacred  function 
like  that,  but  he  let  me  do  it,  and  I  took  the  rope 
and  for  a  minute  or  two  swayed  up  and  down  in  a 
pride  I  can  hardly  express,  ringing  that  five-hundred- 
year-old  bell  to  notify  the  world  of  the  latest  baptism 
in  France. 

We  came  upon  an  imexpected  treat  at  Moulin — 
the  Souvigny  bible,  an  illuminated  manuscript  of 
1 1 15,  with  one  hundred  and  twenty -two  marvelously 
executed  pictorial  designs.  The  bible  was  in  a 
museimi  across  from  the  cathedral,  a  splendid  museum 
indeed   for   Uttle   Moulin,   being   the   reconstructed 


2IO         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

chateau  of  the  Bourbons,  filled  with  beautiful  things 
of  the  Bourbon  period.  The  bible  is  in  a  room  by 
itself  in  a  glass  case,  but  the  guardian  opened  it  for 
us  and  turned  the  leaves.  This  bible,  discovered  at 
the  old  priory  of  the  Httle  town  of  Souvigny,  is  in 
perfect  condition  and  presents  a  gorgeous  piece  of 
hand  illumination.  The  drawing  itself  is  naturally 
primitive,  but  the  coloring  is  rich  beyond  telling, 
the  lettering  marvelously  perfect.  J.  Pierpont  Mor- 
gan is  said  to  have  offered  a  million  francs  for  the 
Souvigny  bible,  a  vast  simi  to  little  Moulin.  I  am 
glad  they  did  not  sell  it.  It  seems  better  in  the 
quiet,  choice  museum  which  was  once  the  castle  of 
the  Bourbon  dukes. 

It  is  curious  how  conventions  establish  themselves 
in  the  different  districts  and  how  absolutely  they 
prevail  in  the  limits  of  those  districts.  In  certain 
sections,  for  instance,  we  foimd  the  furnishings  in 
each  hotel  exactly  alike.  The  same  chairs,  the  same 
Httle  table,  the  same  bedsteads  and  wardrobes,  the 
same  tableware.  We  could  tell  by  the  change  of 
furnishing  when  we  had  reached  a  new  district.  A 
good  portion  of  the  Auvergne  remains  to  us  the 
"Land  of  Squatty  Pitchers,"  because  in  every  bed- 
room the  water  pitcher  was  a  very  short,  very  cor- 
pulent and  saucy-looking  affair  that  amused  us  each 
evening  with  its  absurd  shape.  Then  there  were 
the  big  coffee  bowls  and  spoons.  They  got  larger 
and  larger  from  Nlmes  northward  until  we  reached 
Issoire.  There  the  bowls  were  really  immense  and 
the  spoons  had  grown  from  dessert  spoons  to  table 
spoons,  from  table  spoons  to  soup  spoons  imtil  at 


THE  HAUTE-LOIRE  211 

Issoire  they  were  like  enormous  vegetable  spoons, 
such  as  cooks  use  to  stir  the  pot  with.  From  Moulin 
northward  we  entered  the  "Land  of  Little  Ladders." 
All  the  houses  outside  the  larger  towns  were  story- 
and-a-half  affairs,  built  facing  the  road,  and  the  half- 
story  was  not  reached  by  an  inside  stairway,  but  by 
a  short  outside  ladder  that  led  up  to  a  central  gable 
window,  which  was  really  a  door.  It  was  curious  to 
see  a  string  of  these  houses,  all  with  the  Uttle  ladders, 
and  all  just  alike.  Our  first  thought  was  that  the 
ladders  were  used  because  they  were  cheaper  to  build 
than  a  stairway,  and  saved  inside  room.  But,  reflect- 
ing later,  I  thought  it  more  likely  that  they  originated 
in  the  old  need  of  defense.  I  think  there  was  a  time 
when  the  family  retired  to  the  loft  at  night  and  drew 
the  ladder  up  after  them,  to  avoid  a  surprise. 

It  had  been  raining  softly  when  we  left  Moulin. 
Somehow  we  had  strayed  from  the  main  road,  and 
through  the  misty  mid-region  of  the  Haute-Loire 
followed  ways  imcharted,  but  always  good — always 
interesting,  and  somewhere  in  that  lost  borderland 
we  came  to  Domes,  and  the  daintiest  inn,  kept  by 
the  daintiest  gray -haired  woman,  who  showed  us  her 
kitchen  and  her  flower  garden  and  her  tame  pheas- 
ants, and  made  us  love  her  dearly.  Next  day  at  St. 
Pierre  le  Moutier  we  got  back  on  our  route,  and  when 
Narcissa,  out  of  the  book  she  had  been  reading, 
reminded  us  that  Joan  of  Arc  had  once  fought  a 
battle  there  the  place  became  glorified.  Joan  must 
have  been  at  Nevers,  too,  though  we  found  no  record 
of  it. 

I  think  we  should  have  stayed  longer  at  Nevers. 


212         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

There  was  an  ancient  look  about  portions  of  it  that 
in  a  brighter  day  would  have  invited  us.  Crossing 
the  Loire  and  entering  the  city,  with  its  ancient 
bastioned  walls,  carried  one  back  a  good  way  into 
the  centuries.  But  it  was  still  dull  and  drizzly,  and 
we  had  a  feeling  for  the  open  road  and  a  cozier  lodg- 
ment. 

The  rain  ceased,  the  sun  tried  to  break  through  the 
mist.  The  glistening  worid  became  strangely  lumi- 
nous, a  worid  not  of  hard  realities  at  all.  The  shining 
river  winding  away  into  mystery;  far  valley  reaches 
fading  into  haze;  blurred  lines  of  ancient  spires  and 
towers — these  things  belonged  only  to  a  land  of 
romance.  Long  ago  I  saw  a  painting  entitled  a  dream 
of  Italy.  I  did  not  believe  then  that  any  real  land 
could  be  as  beautiful — I  thought  it  only  an  artist's 
vision.  I  was  mistaken.  No  painting  was  ever  so 
beautiful — so  full  of  richness  and  light  and  color  as 
this  haze-haimted  valley  of  the  Loire. 

We  rested  at  Neuvy,  at  the  little  red-book  inn, 
H6tel  de  la  Paix,  clean  and  inviting  like  the  rest. 
It  is  the  best  compliment  we  can  pay  these  Httle 
hotels  that  we  always  want  to  remain  in  them  longer, 
and  plan  some  day  to  come  back  to  them. 


Chapter  XVI 

NBARING  PARIS 

npHERE  are  more  fine-looking  fishing  places  in 
*  France  than  in  any  country  I  ever  saw.  There  are 
also  more  fishermen.  In  every  river  town  the  water- 
fronts are  lined  with  them.  They  are  a  patient  lot. 
They  have  been  sitting  there  for  years,  I  suppose, 
and  if  they  have  ever  caught  anything  the  fact  has 
been  concealed.  I  have  talked  with  numbers  of 
them,  but  when  I  came  to  the  question  of  their  catch 
they  became  vague,  not  to  say  taciturn.  "Pas 
grande  chose"  ("No  great  thing"),  has  been  the  reply, 
and  there  was  no  exhibit.  I  have  never  seen  one  of 
those  fishermen  get  a  nibble. 

But  the  water  is  certainly  seductive.  Following 
the  upper  Loire  from  Neuvy  to  Gien,  I  was  convinced 
that  with  a  good  rod  I  could  stop  almost  anywhere 
and  fill  the  car.  Such  attractive  eddies,  such  fasci- 
nating, foam-flecked  pools!  Probably  it  is  just  as 
well  I  did  not  have  the  rod.  I  like  to  persuade  myself 
that  the  fish  were  there. 

Gien  on  the  Loire  is  an  old  place,  but  not  much 
that  is  old  remains.  Joan  of  Arc  stopped  there  on 
her  way  to  the  king  at  Chinon,  and  it  was  from 
Gien,  following  the  delivery  of  C)rl6ans  and  the  battle 
of  Patay,  that  she  set  out  with  Charles  VII  for  the 


214        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

coronation  at  Rheims.  But  there  are  no  Joan  relics 
in  Gien  to-day.  There  are,  however,  two  interesting 
features  here:  the  two-story  wells  and  the  hard- 
working dogs.  The  wells  have  a  curb  reaching  to 
the  second  story,  with  an  opening  below  for  the  down- 
stairs tenants.  It  seems  a  good  idea,  and  the  result 
is  picturesque.  The  dogs  are  hitched  to  Httle  wagons 
and  the  Giennese — most  of  whom  seem  to  be  large 
and  fat — ^first  load  those  wagons  and  then  get  in 
themselves  and  ride.  We  saw  one  great  hulk  of  a 
man  approaching  in  what  at  first  seemed  to  be  some 
sort  of  a  go-cart.  It  was  not  until  he  got  close  up 
that  we  discovered  the  dog — a  little  sweltering  dog, 
his  eyes  popping  out,  his  tongue  nearly  dragging  the 
ground.  I  think  the  people  of  Gien  are  lazy  and 
without  shame. 

We  missed  the  road  leaving  Gien  and  wandered  off 
into  narrow,  solid  Httle  byways  that  led  across  fields 
and  along  hedges,  through  hillside  villages  where 
never  a  stone  had  been  moved,  I  think,  in  centuries. 
Once  we  turned  into  what  seemed  a  beautiful  wood 
road,  but  it  led  to  a  grand  new  chateau  and  a  private 
drive  which  had  a  top  dressing  of  deep  soft  sand. 
Fortunately  nobody  was  at  home,  for  we  stalled  in 
the  sand  and  the  head  of  the  family  and  Narcissa 
and  the  Joy  were  obliged  to  get  out  and  push  while 
I  put  on  all  backing  power  and  made  tracks  in  that 
new  sand  that  would  have  horrified  the  owner.  We 
are  the  right  sort,  however.  We  carefully  repaired 
the  scars,  then  made  tracks  of  another  kind,  for 
remoter  districts. 

Miles  away  from  anywhere,  by  a  pool  at  the  edge 


NEARING  PARIS  215 

of  a  field  of  bushes,  we  established  a  luncheon  place, 
and  in  a  seclusion  of  vines  and  shrubbery  the  Joy- 
set  up  a  kitchen  and  made  coffee  and  boiled  eggs  and 
potatoes  and  "kept  house"  for  an  hour  or  so,  to  her 
heart's  content.  We  did  not  know  where  we  were, 
or  particularly  care.  We  knew  that  the  road  would 
lead  somewhere,  and  that  somewhere  would  be  a 
wayside  village  with  a  little  hotel  that  had  been  wait- 
ing for  us  ever  so  long,  with  inviting  comforts  and 
generous  hospitality.  Often  we  said  as  we  drove 
along,  "What  little  hotel  do  you  suppose  is  waiting 
for  us  to-night?"  But  we  did  not  worry,  for  we 
always  knew  we  should  find  it. 

The  ' '  little  hotel "  this  time  proved  to  be  at  Souppes 
on  the  Loing,  and  if  I  had  to  award  a  premium  to 
any  of  the  little  hotels  that  thus  far  had  sheltered  us, 
I  think  I  should  give  it  to  the  H6tel  du  Mouton, 
Souppes.  The  name  naturally  amused  us,  and  we 
tried  to  make  jokes  out  of  it,  but  the  dainty  rooms 
and  the  delicious  dinner  commanded  only  our  ap- 
proval. Also  the  price;  nineteen  francs  and  forty 
centimes,  or  less  than  four  dollars,  for  our  party  of  four, 
dinner,  lodging,  and  breakfast,  garage  free. 

Souppes  is  a  clean  town,  with  a  wide  central  street. 
Most  of  the  towns  up  this  way  were  cleaner  than 
those  of  the  farther  south.  Also,  they  had  better 
buildings,  as  a  rule.  I  mean  the  small  towns.  Vil- 
lages not  large  enough  even  to  be  set  down  on  the 
map  have  churches  that  would  do  credit  in  size  and 
luxury  to  New  York  City.  Take  Bonny,  for  instance. 
We  halted  there  briefly  to  watch  some  quaintly 
dressed  people  who  were  buying  and  selling  at  a  Httle 


2i6         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

butter  and  egg  market,  and  then  we  noticed  a  big, 
gray,  ancient-looking  church  somewhat  farther  along. 
So  we  went  over  there  and  wandered  about  in  its 
dim  coolness,  and  looked  at  its  beautiful  treasures — 
among  them  the  fine  marble  statue  of  Joan  which 
one  meets  to-day  in  most  of  the  churches  in  France. 
How  could  Bonny,  a  mere  village,  ever  have  built  a 
church  like  that — a  church  that  to-day  would  cost 
a  million  dollars? 

Another  thing  we  noticed  up  this  way  was  the 
"sign  of  the  bush."  Here  and  there  along  the  road 
and  in  the  villages  there  would  be  a  house  with  an 
upward-slanting  hole  in  the  outside  wall,  about  half- 
way to  the  eaves,  and  in  the  hole  a  branch  of  a  tree, 
usually  evergreen.  When  we  had  seen  a  few  of  these 
we  began  to  wonder  as  to  their  meaning.  Then  we 
noticed  that  houses  with  those  branches  were  all 
cafes,  and  some  one  suddenly  remembered  a  proverb 
which  says,  "A  good  wine  needs  no  bush,"  and  how, 
in  a  former  day,  at  least,  the  sign  of  the  bush  had 
indicated  a  wine  shop.  That  it  still  does  so  in 
France  became  more  and  more  evident  as  we  went 
along.  Every  wine  shop  had  its  branch  of  green. 
I  do  not  think  there  was  one  along  that  road 
that  considered  its  wine  superior  to  the  traditional 
announcement. 

Just  outside  of  Souppes  there  is  a  great  flinty  rock 
upon  which  some  prehistoric  race  used  to  sharpen 
knives.  I  suppose  it  was  back  before  Caesar's  time, 
but  in  that  hard  stone,  so  hard  that  my  own  knife 
would  not  scratch  it,  the  sharpening  grooves  and 
surfaces  are  as  fresh  as  if  those  old  fellows  had  left 


NEARING  PARIS  817 

there  only  yesterday.  I  wish  I  cotild  know  how 
they  looked. 

We  came  to  the  woods  of  Fontainebleau  and  ate  our 
luncheon  in  its  deep  lucent  shade.  There  is  romance 
in  the  very  name  of  Fontainebleau,  but  we  would 
return  later  to  find  it.  We  drove  a  little  through 
the  wide  avenues  of  that  splendid  forest  that  for  three 
centimes  or  more  was  a  hunting  groimd  and  pleasure 
park  for  kings,  then  we  headed  away  for  Juvisy  on 
the  Seine,  where  we  spent  the  night  and  ate  on  a  ter- 
race in  the  open  air,  in  a  company  not  altogether  to 
our  liking — it  being  rather  noisy,  rather  flashy,  rather 
unwholesome — in  a  word,  Parisian.  We  had  left 
the  region  of  simple  customs  and  tmpretentious 
people.     It  was  not  a  pleasant  change. 

Also,  we  had  left  the  region  of  good  roads.  All 
that  I  have  said  about  the  perfection  of  French  roads 
I  wish  to  retract,  so  far  as  those  in  the  environs  of 
Paris  are  concerned.  Leaving  Juvisy,  we  were  soon 
on  what  is  called  the  "pave,"  a  road  paved  with 
granite  blocks,  poorly  laid  to  begin  with,  and  left 
unrepaired  for  years.  It  is  full  of  holes  and  humps 
and  wallows,  and  is  not  really  a  road  at  all,  but  a 
stone  quarry  on  a  jamboree.  We  jiggled  and  jumped 
and  bumped,  and  only  by  going  at  the  slowest  per- 
missible speed  could  stand  it.  Cars  passed  us  going 
quite  fast,  but  I  could  see  that  their  occupants  were 
not  enjoying  themselves.  They  were  holding  on  to 
the  backs  of  the  seats,  to  the  top  supports,  to  one 
another.  They  were  also  tearing  their  cars  to  pieces, 
though  the  average  Frenchman  does  not  mind  that. 
I  love  France,  and  every  Frenchman  is  my  friend, 


2i8         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

but  I  do  not  wish  him  to  borrow  my  car.  He  drives 
helter-skelter,  lickety-split,  and  never  takes  care  of 
his  car  at  all.  When  the  average  Frenchman  has 
owned  a  car  a  year  it  is  a  rusty,  smoking,  clattering 
box  of  tinware,  ready  for  the  can-heap. 


Chapter  XVII 

SUMMING  UP  THE  COST 

T^HE  informed  motorist  does  not  arrive  at  the  gates 
■*•  of  Paris  with  a  tankful  of  gasoline.  We  were 
not  informed,  and  when  the  octroi  officials  had  meas- 
ured otir  tank  they  charged  us  something  like  four 
dollars  on  its  contents.  The  price  of  gasoline  is 
higher  inside,  but  not  that  much  higher,  I  think.  I 
did  not  inquire,  for  our  tankful  lasted  us  the  week 
of  our  stay. 

To  tell  the  truth,  we  did  but  little  motoring  in 
Paris.  For  one  thing,  the  streets  are  just  a  contin- 
uation of  the  pave,  and  then  the  traffic  regulations 
are  defective.  I  mean  there  are  no  regulations. 
It's  just  a  go-as-you-please,  each  one  for  himself. 
Push,  crowd,  get  ahead  of  the  fellow  in  front  of  you 
— that  is  the  rule.  Here  and  there  a  gendarme 
stands  waving  his  arms  and  shouting,  "Sacre  bleu!" 
but  nobody  pays  the  least  attention  to  him.  The 
well-trained  American  motorist  finds  his  hair  getting 
gray  after  an  hour  or  two  of  that  kind  of  thing. 

But  we  enjoyed  Paris,  though  I  am  not  going  to 
tell  about  it.  No  one  attempts  to  tell  of  Paris  any 
more — it  has  all  been  told  so  often.  But  I  may  hint 
to  the  conservative  motorist  that  below  the  Seine, 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Luxembourg  Gardens, 
about  where  the  rue  de  Vaugirard  crosses  the  Boule- 


220        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

vard  St.  Michel,  he  will  find  choice  little  hotels,  with 
rooms  very  moderate  indeed. 

And  perhaps  here  is  a  good  place  to  speak  of  the 
cost  of  our  travel.  We  had  stinted  ourselves  in 
nothing  except  style.  We  had  traveled  leisurely, 
happily,  enjojdng  everything  to  the  full,  and  our 
average  expense  was  a  trifle  less  than  forty  francs 
a  day — that  is,  eight  dollars  for  four  persons  and  the 
car.  Our  bill  each  day  at  the  little  hotels  for  dinner, 
lodging,  and  petit  dejeuner  (rolls,  coffee,  and  jam) 
averaged  about  twenty- two  francs,  garage  free.* 
That,  of  course,  is  absurdly  cheap. 

The  matter  of  gasoline  is  different.  "Essence,** 
or  benzine,  as  they  call  it,  is  high  in  Europe,  and 
you  would  think  it  was  some  fine  liqueur,  the 
way  they  handle  it.  They  put  it  up  in  sealed 
five-liter  cans,  and  I  have  seen  motorists,  native 
motorists,  buy  one  can — a  trifle  more  than  a  gallon — 
probably  fearing  evaporation,  or  that  somebody 
would  rob  the  tank.  One  of  those  cans  cost  us  about 
fifty  cents,  and,  being  of  extra  refined  quality,  it  would 
carry  us  on  French  roads  between  eighteen  and  twenty 
miles.  Sixty  miles  a  day  was  about  our  average, 
which  is  aplenty  for  sight-seeing,  even  for  an  Amer- 
ican. Our  gasoline  and  oil  expense  came  to  about 
eight  francs  a  day.  The  remainder  of  our  eight 
dollars  went  for  luncheon  by  the  roadside  and  for 
tips.    The  picnic  luncheon — ^bread  and  butter  (deli- 

*  It  was  oftener  from  sixteen  to  eighteen  francs,  but  the  time  when 
we  stopped  at  larger  towns,  like  Le  Puy,  Lyons,  and  Valence,  brought 
up  the  average.  These  are  antewar  prices.  I  am  told  there  is  about 
a  50-per-cent  increase  (on  the  dollar  basis)  to-day.  The  value  of  the 
French  franc  is  no  longer  a  fixed  quantity. 


SUMMING  UP  THE  COST  221 

cious  unsalted  butter),  jam,  eggs,  tinned  meats, 
cheese,  sausage,  etc. — ^rarely  cost  to  exceed  four  francs, 
and  was  usually  cheaper.  Our  hotel  tips  were  about 
10  per  cent  of  the  bill,  which  is  the  correct  amount, 
and  was  always  satisfactory.  When  one  gives  more 
he  gains  nothing  but  servility,  and  makes  it  difficult  for 
those  who  follow  him.  On  the  other  hand  an  Amer- 
ican cannot  give  less  and  keep  his  self-respect.  There 
were  usually  but  two  servants  at  Uttle  inns,  a  waitress 
and  a  chambermaid.  They  were  entitled  to  a  franc 
each,  and  the  boy  at  the  garage  to  another.  Two 
or  three  francs  a  day  was  quite  enough  for  incidental 
tips  at  churches,  ruined  castles,  and  the  like,  unless 
there  should  be  a  fee,  which  would  naturally  be 
reckoned  outside  the  regular  budget.  In  any  case, 
such  fees  were  small  and  infrequent.  I  think  I  will 
add  a  brief  summary  of  the  foregoing  figtu-es  which 
I  seem  to  have  stnmg  along  in  a  rather  loose,  con- 
fusing way. 

SUMMARY 

AVERAGE  DAILY  COST  OP  MOTORING  FOR  FOUR  PERSONS,  1914 

Average  daily  cost  of  dinner,  lodging,  and  break- 
fast  22  francs  ($440) 

"         -"    gasoline  and  oil 8      "      (  1.60) 

«         "  "    roadside  luncheon 4      "      (    .80) 

«  "  "    tips  at  hotel 3      "      (    .60) 

"  "          for  sight-seeing 3      "      (    •60) 

Total 40  francs  ($8.00) 

That  was  reasonable  motor  travel,  and  our  eight 


222         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

dollars  bought  as  much  daily  happiness  as  any  party 
of  four  is  likely  to  find  in  this  old  world.' 

Another  thing  I  wish  to  record  in  this  chapter  is 
the  absolute  squareness  we  found  everywhere.  At 
no  hotel  was  there  the  slightest  attempt  to  misrep- 
resent, to  ring  in  extras,  to  encourage  side-adventures 
in  the  matter  of  wines  or  an5rthing  of  the  sort.  We 
had  been  led  to  believe  that  the  motorist  was  regarded 
as  fair  game  for  the  continental  innkeeper.  Possibly 
there  were  localities  where  this  was  true,  but  I  am 
doubtful.  Neither  did  the  attendants  gather  hun- 
grily around  at  parting.  More  than  once  I  was 
obliged  to  hunt  up  our  waitress,  or  to  leave  her  tip 
with  the  girl  or  man  who  brought  the  bags.  The 
conclusion  grew  that  if  the  motorist  is  robbed  and 
crucified  in  Eiu-ope,  as  in  the  beginning  a  friend  had 
prophesied  we  should  be,  it  is  mainly  because  he  robs 
and  crucifies  himself. 


^The  reader  must  continue  to  bear  in  mind  that  this  was  in  a 
golden  age.  The  cost  would  probably  be  nearer  150  francs  to-day 
(192 1 ),  or  $12  American  money.  Even  so,  it  would  be  cheaper  than 
staying  at  home,  in  America. 


Chapter  XVIII 

THE  ROAD  TO  CHERBOURG 

TT  is  easy  enough  to  get  into  ahnost  any  town  or 
^  city,  but  it  is  different  when  you  start  to  leave  it. 
All  roads  lead  to  Rome,  but  there  is  only  here  and 
there  one  that  leads  out  of  it.  With  the  best  map 
in  the  world  you  can  go  wrong. 

We  worked  our  way  out  of  Paris  by  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne,  but  we  had  to  call  on  all  sorts  of  persons 
for  information  before  we  were  really  in  the  open 
fields  once  more.  A  handsome  young  officer  riding 
in  the  Bois  gave  us  a  good  supply.  He  was  one  of 
the  most  polite  persons  I  ever  met;  also,  the  most 
loquacious.  The  simi  of  what  he  told  us  was  to  take 
the  first  turn  to  the  right,  but  he  told  it  to  us  for 
fully  five  minutes,  with  all  the  variations  and  embroid- 
eries of  a  young  and  lively  fancy  that  likes  to  hear 
itself  in  operation.  He  explained  how  the  scenery 
would  look  when  we  had  turned  to  the  right;  also 
how  it  would  continue  to  look  when  there  was  no 
longer  a  necessity  of  turning  in  either  direction  and 
what  the  country  would  be  in  that  open  land  beyond 
the  Bois.  On  the  sHghtest  provocation  I  think  he 
would  have  ridden  with  us,  even  into  Cherbourg. 
He  was  a  boon,  nevertheless,  and  we  were  truly 
grateful. 

Beyond  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  lay  the  pave,  miles 


224        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

of  it,  all  as  bad  as  it  could  be.  Sometimes  we  could 
not  really  tell  when  we  were  in  the  road.  Once  I 
found  myself  on  a  sort  of  private  terrace  without 
knowing  how  I  got  there  or  how  to  get  down.  We 
went  through  St.  Germain,  but  we  did  not  stop.  We 
wished  to  get  far  from  Paris — back  to  the  simple  life 
and  good  roads.  It  was  along  the  Seine,  at  last,  that 
we  foimd  them  and  the  quiet  villages.  Imagine  the 
luxury  of  following  a  silent,  tranquil  road  by  that 
placid  stream,  through  the  sweetness  of  a  May 
afternoon.  Imagine  the  peace  of  it  after  the  jar  and 
jolt  and  clatter  and  dazzle  of  detestable,  adorable 
Paris. 

I  am  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  recommend  the  hotel 
at  Rosny.  For  a  time  it  looked  as  if  it  were  going 
to  be  one  of  the  best  of  our  selections,  but  it  did  not 
turn  out  so.  When  we  found  a  little  toy  garden  at 
the  back,  our  rooms  a  string  of  tiny  one-story  houses 
facing  it,  with  roses  blooming  at  every  doorway,  we 
were  deUghted.  Each  of  us  had  a  toy  house  to  him- 
self, and  there  was  another  for  the  car  at  the  back. 
It  was  a  real  play  place,  and  we  said  how  nice  it  was 
and  wished  we  might  stay  a  good  while.  Then  we 
went  for  a  walk  down  to  the  river  and  in  the  sunset 
watched  a  ctuious  ferryboat  run  back  and  forth  on 
a  wire,  taking  over  homefaring  teams,  and  some  sheep 
and  cattle,  to  the  village  on  the  farther  bank  of  the 
little,  but  historic,  river.  In  the  early  gloaming  we 
walked  back  to  our  hotel. 

The  dinner  was  very  good — all  dinners  in  France 
are  that — ^but  alas  for  our  pretty  playhouse  rooms! 
When  candles  were  brought  in  we  saw  what  I  had 


THE  ROAD  TO  CHERBOURG  225 

begun  to  suspect  from  the  feeling,  the  walls  were 
damp — worse,  they  were  soaked — almost  dripping. 
It  seems  they  were  built  against  a  hill  and  the  recent 
rains  had  soaked  them  through.  We  could  not  risk 
it — the  landlady  must  give  us  something  in  the  main 
house.  She  was  a  good  soul — full  of  regrets,  even 
grief.  She  had  not  known  about  those  walls,  she 
said,  and,  alas!  she  had  no  rooms  in  the  main  house. 
When  we  insisted  that  she  must  find  something,  she 
admitted  that  there  was,  indeed,  just  one  room,  but 
so  small,  so  humble — fine  folk  like  us  could  never 
occupy  it. 

She  was  right  about  its  being  small,  but  she  was 
wrong  in  thinking  we  could  not  occupy  it.  She 
brought  in  cots  and  bedding,  and  when  we  were  all 
in  place  at  last  we  just  about  filled  it  from  side  to 
side.  Still,  it  was  dry  and  ventilated;  those  other 
places  had  been  neither.  But  it  seemed  to  us  amusing 
that  our  fine  pretension  of  a  house  apiece  opening  on 
a  garden  had  suddenly  dwindled  to  one  inconsiderable 
room  for  the  foiu*  of  us. 

We  were  in  Normandy,  now,  and  enjoying  it.  Every- 
thing was  quite  different  from  the  things  of  the  south. 
The  picturesque  thatched-roof  houses;  the  women 
in  dainty  caps,  riding  on  donkeys,  with  great  brass 
milk  jugs  fore  and  aft;  the  very  ancient  cross-timber 
architecture;  those,  to  us,  were  new  things  in  France. 

The  architecture  and  some  of  the  costimies  were 
not  new  to  one  who  had  visited  England.  William 
the  Norman  must  have  carried  his  thatched-roof  and 
cross-timber  architecture  across  the  Channel;  also, 
certain  dresses  and  smocks  and  the  pattern  of  the 


226        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

men*s  whiskers.  In  some  of  these  towns  one  might 
almost  believe  himself  in  rural  England. 

Lisieux,  especially,  is  of  the  type  I  mean.  It  has 
a  street  which  might  be  in  Shrewsbury,  though  I 
think  the  Shrewsbury  houses  would  not  be  as  old  as 
those  of  Lisieux,  one  of  which — "The  House  of  the 
Salamander" — so  called  from  the  decoration  on  its 
carved  facade — we  were  permitted  to  visit.  Some- 
thing about  it  gave  me  more  the  feeling  of  the  ancient 
life  than  I  have  found  in  most  of  the  castles.  Per- 
haps because  it  is  wood,  and  wood  holds  personaHty 
longer  than  stone. 

There  is  an  old  church  at  Lisieux,  and  it  has  a 
chapel  built  by  Cauchon,  Bishop  of  Beauvais,  who 
hounded  Joan  of  Arc  to  the  stake.  Cauchon  earned 
the  Beauvais  appointment  by  convicting  Joan,  but 
later,  especially  after  Joan  had  been  rehabilitated, 
he  became  frightened  of  the  entertainment  which  he 
suspected  Satan  was  preparing  for  him  and  built 
this  chapel  in  expiation,  hoping  to  escape  the  fire. 
It  is  a  beautiful  chapel,  but  I  think  Cauchon  wasted 
his  money.  If  he  didn't  there  is  something  wrong 
with  justice. 

The  Normandy  road  to  Cherbourg  is  as  wonderful 
as  any  in  France.  All  the  way  it  is  lined  with  trees, 
and  it  goes  straight  on,  mile  after  mile,  up  hill  and 
down — ^long,  long  hills  that  on  the  approach  look  as 
if  they  reached  to  the  sky,  but  that  flatten  out  when 
you  get  to  them,  and  offer  a  grade  so  gradual  and  a 
surface  so  smooth  that  you  need  never  shift  your 
speed  levers.  Workmen  are  always  raking  and 
touching  up  those  roads.     We  had  something  more 


THE  ROAD  TO  CHERBOURG  227 

than  two  days  of  them,  and  if  the  weather  had  not 
been  rather  windy  and  chilly  out  on  that  long  penin- 
sula the  memory  of  that  nm  would  be  about  perfect. 
Cherbourg  is  not  the  great  city  we  had  imagined 
it  to  be.  It  is  simply  a  naval  base,  heavily  fortified, 
and  a  steamer  landing.  Coming  in  on  the  Paris  road 
you  are  in  the  center  of  activities  almost  as  soon  as 
you  reach  the  suburbs  and  there  is  none  of  the  crush 
of  heavy  traffic  that  one  might  expect.  There  is  a 
pleasant  beach,  too,  and  if  travelers  were  not  always 
going  somewhere  else  when  they  arrive  at  Cherbourg, 
the  Httle  city  might  become  a  real  resort.  We  were 
there  a  week  before  our  ship  came  in,  then  sailed  out 
one  quiet  Jtme  evening  on  the  harbor  tender  to  meet 
the  missing  member  and  happily  welcome  her  to 
France.  Our  hotel  had  a  moving-picture  show  in 
the  open  air,  and  we  could  look  down  on  it  from  our 
windows.  The  Joy  especially  liked  this,  and  we 
might  have  stayed  there  permanently,  but  the  long 
roads  and  still  tmvisited  glories  of  France  were  calling. 


Chapter  XIX 

BAYEUX,  CAEN,  AND  ROUEN 

"\  X  ^E  had  barely  hesitated  at  Bayeiix  on  the  way 
'  ^  to  Cherbourg,  but  now  we  stopped  there  for 
the  night.  Bayeux,  which  is  about  sixty  miles  from 
Cherbourg,  was  intimately  associated  with  the  life 
of  William  the  Conqueror,  and  is  to-day  the  home 
of  the  famous  Bayeux  tapestry,  a  piece  of  linen  two 
himdred  and  thirty  feet  long  and  eighteen  inches 
wide,  on  which  is  embroidered  in  colored  wools  the 
story  of  WilHam's  conquest  of  England. 

William's  queen,  Matilda,  is  supposed  to  have 
designed  this  marvelous  pictorial  document,  and  even 
executed  it,  though  probably  with  the  assistance  of 
her  ladies.  Completed  in  the  eleventh  century,  it 
would  seem  to  have  been  stored  in  the  Bayeux  cathe- 
dral, where  it  lay  scarcely  remembered  for  a  period 
of  more  than  six  hundred  years.  Then  attention 
was  called  to  its  artistic  and  historic  value,  and  it 
became  still  more  widely  known  when  Napoleon 
brought  it  to  Paris  and  exhibited  it  at  the  Louvre  to 
stir  the  French  to  another  conquest  of  England. 
Now  it  is  back  in  Bayeux,  and  has  a  special  room  in 
the  museum  there,  and  a  special  glass  case,  so  arranged 
that  you  can  walk  around  it  and  see  each  of  its  fifty- 
eight  tableaux. 

It  was  the  closing  hour  when  we  got  to  the  Bayeux 


BAYEL%  CAEN,  AND  ROUEN     2*9 

museum,  but  the  guardian  gave  us  plenty  of  time  to 
walk  around  and  look  at  all  the  marvelous  procession 
of  horses  and  men  whose  outlines  have  remained  firm 
and  whose  colors  have  stayed  fresh  for  more  than 
eight  himdred  years. 

Matilda  was  ahead  of  her  time  in  art.  She  was  a 
futurist^ — anybody  can  see  that  who  has  been  to  one 
of  the  later  exhibitions.  But  she  was  exactly  abreast 
in  the  matter  of  history.  It  is  likely  that  she  embroid- 
ered the  events  as  they  were  reported  to  her,  and  her 
records  are  above  price  to-day.  I  suppose  she  sat 
in  a  beautiful  room  with  her  maids  about  her,  all 
engaged  at  the  great  work,  and  I  hope  she  looked  as 
handsome  as  she  looks  in  the  fine  painting  of  her 
which  hangs  above  the  case  containing  her  master- 
piece. 

There  is  something  jfine  and  stirring  about  Matilda's 
tapestry.  No  matter  if  Harold  does  seem  to  be 
having  an  attack  of  plemisy  when  he  is  only  putting 
on  his  armor,  or  if  the  horses  appear  to  have  detach- 
able legs.  Matilda's  horses  and  men  can  get  up 
plenty  of  swift  action  on  occasion,  and  the  events 
certainly  do  move.  Tradition  has  it  that  the  untimely 
death  of  the  queen  left  the  tapestry  unfinished,  for 
which  reason  William's  coronation  does  not  appear. 
I  am  glad  we  stopped  at  Bayeux.  I  would  rather 
have  seen  Matilda's  faithfully  embroidered  conquest 
than  a  whole  gallery  full  of  old  masters. 

Next  day  at  Caen  we  visited  her  grave.  It  stands 
in  a  church  which  she  herself  foimded  in  expiation 
of  some  fancied  sin  connected  with  her  marriage. 
Her  remains  have  never  been  disturbed.    We  also 


230         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

visited  the  tomb  of  the  Conqueror,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  city  at  the  church  of  St.  fitienne.  But  the 
Conqueror's  bones  are  not  there  now;  they  were 
scattered  by  the  Huguenots  in  1562. 

We  enjoyed  Caen.  We  wandered  about  among 
its  ancient  churches  and  still  more  ancient  streets. 
At  one  church  a  wedding  was  going  on,  and  Narcissa 
and  I  lingered  a  little  to  assist.  One  does  not  get 
invited  to  a  Normandy  wedding  every  day,  especially 
in  the  old  town  where  William  I  organized  his  rabble 
to  invade  England.  No  doubt  this  bride  and  groom 
were  descendants  of  some  of  William's  wild  rascals, 
but  they  looked  very  mild  and  handsome  and 
modem  to  us.  Narcissa  and  I  attended  quite  a 
variety  of  ceremonials  in  the  course  of  our  travels: 
christenings,  catechisms,  song  services,  high  mass, 
funerals — there  was  nearly  always  something  going 
on  in  those  big  churches,  and  the  chantings  and 
intonings,  and  the  candles,  and  the  incense,  and  the 
processions  and  genuflections,  and  the  robes  of  the 
priests  and  the  costumes  of  the  assemblages  all 
interested  us. 

Caen  became  an  important  city  under  William  the 
Conqueror.  Edward  III  of  England  captured  and 
pillaged  it  about  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
at  which  time  it  was  larger  than  any  city  in  England, 
except  London.  It  was  from  Caen  that  Charlotte 
Corday  set  out  to  assassinate  Marat.  To-day  Caen 
has  less  than  fifty  thousand  inhabitants  and  is  mainly 
interesting  for  its  art  treasures  and  its  memories. 

We  left  the  Paris-Cherbourg  road  at  Caen.  Our 
program   included    Rouen,  Amiens,    and    Beauvais, 


BAYEUX,  CAEN,  AND  ROUEN     231 

cathedral  cities  lying  more  to  the  northward.  That 
night  we  lay  at  the  little  Norman  village  of  Bourg- 
Achard,  in  an  inn  of  the  choicest  sort,  and  next  morn- 
ing looked  out  of  our  windows  on  a  busy  cattle 
market,  where  men  in  clean  blue  smocks  and  women 
in  neat  black  dresses  and  becoming  headgear  were 
tugging  their  beasts  about,  exhibiting  them  and 
discussing  them — eating,  meantime,  large  pieces  of 
gingerbread  and  other  convenient  food.  A  near-by 
orchard  was  filled  with  these  busy  traders.  At  one 
place  our  street  was  lined  with  agricultural  imple- 
ments which  on  closer  inspection  proved  to  be 
of  American  manufacture.  From  Bourg-Achard  to 
Rouen  the  distance  seemed  all  too  short — the  road 
was  so  beautiful. 

It  was  at  Rouen  that  we  started  to  trace  backward 
the  sacred  footprints  of  Joan  of  Arc,  saint  and  savior 
of  France.  For  it  is  at  Rouen  that  the  pathway  ends. 
When  we  had  visited  the  great  cathedral,  whose  fairy- 
like fagade  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world, 
we  drove  to  a  comer  of  the  old  Market  Place,  and 
stopped  before  a  bronze  tablet  which  tells  that  on 
this  spot  on  a  certain  day  in  May,  143 1  (it  was  the 
29th),  the  only  spotless  soul  in  France,  a  yoimg  girl 
who  had  saved  her  country  from  an  invading  and 
conquering  enemy,  was  burned  at  the  stake.  That 
was  five  hundred  years  ago,  but  time  has  not  dulled 
the  misery  of  the  event,  its  memory  of  torture,  its 
humiliation.  All  those  centuries  since,  the  nation 
that  Joan  saved  has  been  trying  to  atone  for  her 
death.  Streets  have  been  named  for  her;  statues 
have  been  set  up  for  her  in  every  church  and  in  public 

16 


232         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

squares,  but  as  we  read  that  sorrowful  tablet  I  could 
not  help  thinking  that  all  of  those  honors  together 
are  not  worth  a  single  instant  of  her  fiendish  torture 
when  the  flames  had  found  her  tender  flesh.  Cauchon, 
later  Bishop  of  Beauvais,  her  persecutor,  taunted 
his  victim  to  the  last.  If  the  chapel  of  expiation  he 
built  later  at  Lisieux  saved  him,  then  chapels  must 
indeed  be  held  in  high  esteem  by  those  who  confer 
grace. 

Nothing  is  there  to-day  that  was  there  then,  but 
one  may  imagine  an  open  market  place  thronged  with 
people,  and  the  horrid  structure  of  death  on  which 
stood  Joan  while  they  preached  to  her  of  her  sins.  Her 
sins!  when  she  was  the  only  one  among  them  that 
was  not  pitch  black,  steeped  to  the  hair  in  villainy. 
Cauchon  himself  finished  the  sermon  by  excom- 
municating her,  cutting  off  the  church's  promise  of 
salvation.  On  her  head  she  wore  a  cap  on  which  was 
printed:  Heretic,  Relapsed,  Apostate,  Idolater. 
Cauchon  had  spared  nothing  to  make  her  anguish 
complete.  It  is  curious  that  he  allowed  her  to  pray, 
but  he  did,  and  when  she  prayed — not  for  herself, 
but  for  the  king  who  had  deserted  her — ^for  his  glory 
and  triumph,  Cauchon  himself  summoned  the  execu- 
tioners, and  they  boimd  her  to  the  stake  with  chains 
and  lighted  the  fire. 

There  is  little  more  to  see  of  Joan  in  Rouen.  The 
cathedral  was  there  in  her  time,  but  she  was  never 
permitted  to  enter  it.  There  is  a  wall  which  was  a 
part  of  the  chapel  where  she  had  her  final  hearing 
before  her  judges;  there  are  some  houses  which  she 
must  have  passed,  and  there  is  a  tower  which  belonged 


BAYEUX,  CAEN,  AND  ROUEN     233 

to  the  castle  in  which  she  was  confined,  though  it 
is  not  certain  that  it  is  Joan's  tower.  There  is  a 
small  museum  in  it,  and  among  its  treasures  we  saw 
the  manuscript  article  St.  Joan  of  Arc,  by  Mark 
Twain,  who,  in  his  Personal  Recollections,  has  left  to 
the  world  the  lovehest  picture  of  that  lovely  life. 


Chapter  XX 

WE   COME   TO   GRIEF 

TT  was  our  purpose  to  leave  Rouen  by  the  Amiens 
^  road,  but  when  we  got  to  it  and  looked  up  a  hill 
that  about  halfway  to  the  zenith  arrived  at  the  sky, 
we  decided  to  take  a  road  that  led  off  toward  Beauvais. 
We  could  have  climbed  that  hill  well  enough,  and  I 
wished  later  we  had  done  so.  As  it  was,  we  ran  along 
quite  pleasantly  during  the  afternoon,  and  attended 
evening  services  in  an  old  church  at  Grandvilliers,  a 
place  that  we  had  never  heard  of  before,  but  where 
we  found  an  inn  as  good  as  any  in  Normandy. 

It  is  curious  with  what  exactness  Fate  times  its 
conclusions.  If  we  had  left  Grandvilliers  a  few 
seconds  earlier  or  later  it  would  have  made  aU  the 
difference,  or  if  I  had  not  pulled  up  a  moment  to 
look  at  a  lovely  bit  of  brookside  planted  with  pop- 
lars, or  if  I  had  driven  the  least  bit  slower  or  the 
least  bit  faster,  during  the  first  five  miles,  or — 

Oh,  never  mind — ^what  happened  was  this :  We  had 
just  mounted  a  long  steep  hill  on  high  speed  and  I 
had  been  bragging  on  the  car,  always  a  dangerous 
thing  to  do,  when  I  saw  ahead  of  us  a  big  two-wheeled 
cart  going  in  the  same  direction  as  ourselves,  and 
beyond  it  a  large  car  approaching.  I  could  have 
speeded  up  and  cut  in  ahead  of  the  cart,  but  I  was 
feeling  well,  and  I  thought  I  should  do  the  courteous 


WE  COME  TO  GRIEF  235 

thing,  the  safe  thing,  so  I  fell  in  behind  it.  Not  far 
enough  behind  him,  however,  for  as  the  big  car 
came  opposite,  the  sleepy  driver  of  the  cart  ptilled 
up  his  horse  short,  and  we  were  not  far  enough  behind 
for  me  to  get  the  brakes  down  hard  and  suddenly 
enough  to  stop  before  we  touched  him.  It  was  not 
a  smash.  It  was  just  a  push,  but  it  pushed  a  big 
hole  in  our  radiator,  mashed  up  one  of  our  lamps, 
and  crinkled  up  our  left  mud-guard.  The  radiator 
was  the  worst.  The  water  poured  out;  our  car 
looked  as  if  it  had  burst  into  tears. 

We  were  really  stupefied  at  the  extent  of  our  dis- 
aster. The  big  car  pulled  up  to  investigate  and 
console  us.  The  occupants  were  Americans,  too, 
from  Washington — kindly  people  who  wanted  to 
shoulder  some  of  the  blame.  Their  chauffeur,  a 
Frenchman,  bargained  with  the  cart  driver  who  had 
wrecked  us  to  tow  us  to  the  next  town,  where  there 
were  garages.  Certainly  pride  goes  before  a  fall. 
Five  minutes  before  we  were  sailing  along  in  glory, 
exulting  over  the  prowess  of  our  vehicle.  Now  all 
in  the  wink  of  an  eye  our  precious  conveyance,  stricken 
and  helpless,  was  being  towed  to  the  hospital,  its 
owners  trudging  mournfully  behind. 

The  village  was  Poix,  and  if  one  had  to  be  wrecked 
anywhere,  I  cannot  think  of  a  lovelier  spot  for  dis- 
aster than  Poix  de  la  Somme.  It  is  just  across  in 
Picardy,  and  the  Somme  there  is  a  little  brook  that 
ripples  and  winds  through  poplar-shaded  pastures, 
sweet  meadows,  and  deep  groves.  In  every  direction 
were  the  loveliest  walks,  with  landscape  pictures  at 
every  turn.    The  village  itself  was  drowsy,  kindly. 


236         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

simple-hearted.  The  landlady  at  our  inn  was  a 
motherly  soul  that  during  the  week  of  our  stay  the 
Joy  and  I  learned  to  love. 

For  the  others  did  not  linger.  Paris  was  not  far 
away  and  had  a  good  deal  in  the  way  of  shopping  to 
recommend  it.  The  new  radiator  ordered  from 
London  might  be  delayed.  So  early  next  morning 
they  were  off  for  Paris  by  way  of  Amiens  and  Beau- 
vais,  and  the  Joy  and  I  settled  down  to  such  employ- 
ments and  amusements  as  we  could  find,  while  wait- 
ing for  repairs. 

We  got  acquainted  with  the  garageman's  family, 
for  one  thing.  They  lived  in  the  same  little  court 
with  the  shop,  and  we  exchanged  Swiss  French  for 
their  Picardese,  and  were  bosom  friends  in  no  time. 
We  spruced  up  the  car,  too,  and  every  day  took  long 
walks,  and  every  afternoon  took  some  limcheon  and 
our  little  stove  and  followed  down  the  Somme  to  a 
tiny  bridge,  and  there  made  our  tea.'  Then  some- 
times we  read,  and  once  when  I  was  reading  aloud 
from  Mark  Twain's  Joan  of  Arc,  and  had  finished 
the  great  battle  of  Patay,  we  suddenly  remembered 
that  it  had  happened  on  the  very  day  on  which 
we  were  reading,  the  i8th  of  June.  How  little 
we  guessed  that  in  such  a  short  time  our  peaceful 
little  river  would  give  its  name  to  a  battle  a  thousand 
times  greater  than  any  that  Joan  ever  fought! 

Once  when  we  were  resting  by  the  roadside  a  little 
old  lady  with  a  basket  stopped  and  sat  with  us  while 
she  told  us  her  history — ^how  her  husband  had  been 
a  great  physician  and  invented  cures  that  to-day 
are  used  in  all  the  hospitals  of  France.     Now  she 


WE  COME  TO  GRIEF  237 

was  poor,  she  said,  and  lived  alone  in  a  little  house, 
but  if  we  would  visit  her  she  would  give  us  some 
good  Picardese  cooking.  I  wish  we  might  have  gone. 
One  day  I  hired  a  bicycle  for  the  Joy  and  entertained 
the  village  by  pushing  her  aroimd  the  public  square 
until  she  learned  to  ride  alone.  Then  I  hired  one  for 
myself  and  we  went  out  on  the  road  together.  About 
the  end  of  the  third  day  we  began  to  look  for  oiur 
radiator,  and  visited  the  express  office  with  consid- 
erable regularity.  Presently  the  village  knew  us, 
why  we  were  there  and  what  we  were  expecting. 
They  became  as  anxious  about  it  as  ourselves. 


Chapter  XXI 

THE    DAMAGE    REPAIRED — BEAUVAIS    AND    COMPIEGNB 

/^NE  morning  as  we  started  toward  the  express 
^-^  office  a  man  in  a  wagon  passed  and  called  out 
something.  We  did  not  catch  it,  but  presently 
another  met  us  and  with  a  glad  look  told  us  that  our 
goods  had  arrived  and  were  now  in  the  delivery 
wagon  on  the  way  to  the  garage.  We  did  not  rec- 
ognize either  of  those  good  souls,  but  they  were  inter- 
ested in  our  welfare.  Our  box  was  at  the  garage 
when  we  arrived  there,  and  in  a  little  more  it  was 
opened  and  the  new  radiator  in  place.  The  other 
repairs  had  been  made,  and  once  more  we  were  com- 
plete. We  decided  to  start  next  morning  to  join  the 
others  in  Paris. 

Morning  comes  early  on  the  longest  days  of  the  year, 
and  we  had  eaten  our  breakfast,  had  our  belongings 
put  into  the  car,  and  were  ready  to  be  off  by  seven 
o'clock.  What  a  delicious  morning  it  was!  Calm, 
glistening,  the  dew  on  everything.  As  long  as  I  live 
I  shall  remember  that  golden  morning  when  the  Joy, 
aged  eleven,  and  I  went  gypsying  together,  following 
the  winding  roads  and  byways  that  led  us  through 
pleasant  woods,  under  sparkling  banks,  and  along  the 
poplar-planted  streams  of  Picardy.  We  did  not  keep 
to  highways  at  all.  We  were  in  no  hurry  and  we  took 
any  lane  that  seemed  to  lead  in  the  right  direction. 


THE  DAMAGE  REPAIRED  239 

so  that  much  of  the  time  we  appeared  to  be  crossing 
fields — ^fields  of  flowers,  many  of  them,  scarlet  pop- 
pies, often  mingled  with  blue  cornflowers  and  yellow 
mustard — fancy  the  vividness  of  that  color. 

Traveling  in  that  wandering  fashion,  it  was  noon 
before  we  got  down  to  Beauvais,  where  we  stopped 
for  limcheon  supplies  and  to  see  what  is  perhaps  the 
most  remarkable  cathedral  in  the  world.  It  is  one 
of  the  most  beautiful,  and,  though  it  consists  only  of 
choir  and  transepts,  it  is  one  of  the  largest.  Its  inner 
height,  from  floor  to  vaulting,  is  one  himdred  and 
fifty-eight  feet.  The  average  ten-story  building 
could  sit  inside  of  it.  There  was  once  a  steeple  that 
towered  to  the  giddy  heights  of  five  hundred  feet, 
but  in  1573,  when  it  had  been  standing  three  himdred 
years,  it  fell  down,  from  having  insufficient  support. 
The  inner  work  is  of  white  stone,  marble,  and  the 
whole  place  seems  filled  with  hght.  It  was  in  this 
cool,  heavenly  sanctuary  that  Cauchon,  who  hoimded 
Joan  to  the  stake,  officiated  as  bishop.  I  never 
saw  a  place  so  imsuited  to  a  man.  I  should  think 
that  spire  would  have  tumbled  off  then  instead  of 
waiting  until  he  had  been  dead  a  himdred  years. 
There  is  a  clock  in  this  church — a  modem  clock — 
that  records  everything,  even  the  age  of  the  world, 
which  at  the  moment  of  our  visit  was  5,914  years. 
It  is  a  very  large  affair,  but  we  did  not  find  it  very 
exciting.  In  the  pubHc  square  of  Beauvais  there  is 
a  bronze  statue  of  Jeanne  Laine,  called  "Jeanne 
Hachette,"  because,  armed  with  a  hatchet,  she  led 
others  of  her  sex  against  Charles  the  Bold  in  1472 
and  captured  a  banner  with  her  own  hands. 


240        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Beauvais  has  many  interesting  things,  but  the  day 
had  become  very  warm  and  we  did  not  linger.  We 
foimd  some  of  the  most  satisfactory  pastries  I  have 
ever  seen  in  France,  fresh  and  dripping  with  richness; 
also  a  few  other  delicacies,  and,  by  and  by,  under  a 
cool  apple  tree  on  the  road  to  Compi^gne,  the  Joy 
and  I  spread  out  our  feast  and  ate  it  and  listened  to 
some  Httle  French  birds  singing,  "Vite!  Vite!  Vite!" 
meaning  that  we  must  be  "Quick!  Quick!  Quick!"  so 
they  could  have  the  crumbs. 

It  was  at  Compi^gne  that  Joan  of  Arc  was  captured 
by  her  enemies,  just  a  year  before  that  last  fearful 
day  at  Rouen.  She  had  relieved  Orleans,  she  had 
fought  Patay,  she  had  crowned  the  king  at  Rheims; 
she  would  have  had  her  army  safely  in  Paris  if  she 
had  not  been  withheld  by  a  weakling,  influenced  by 
his  shuffling,  time-serving  coimselors.  She  had  de- 
livered Compi^gne  the  year  before,  but  now  again 
it  was  in  trouble,  besieged  by  the  Duke  of  Burgimdy. 
Joan  had  been  kept  in  partial  inactivity  in  the  Loire 
district  below  Paris  during  the  winter,  but  with  the 
news  fromCompi^gne  she  could  no  longer  be  restrained. 

"I  will  go  to  my  good  friends  of  Compi^gne,"  she 
said,  and,  taking  such  force  as  she  could  muster,  in 
nimiber  about  six  himdred  cavalry,  she  went  to  their 
relief. 

From  a  green  hill  commanding  the  valley  of  the 
Oise  we  looked  down  upon  the  bright  river  and  pretty 
city  which  Joan  had  seen  on  that  long-ago  afternoon 
of  her  final  battle  for  France.  Somewhere  on  that 
plain  the  battle  had  taken  place,  and  Joan's  little 
force  for  the  first  time  had  failed.     There  had  been 


THE  DAMAGE  REPAIRED  241 

a  panic;  Joan,  still  fighting  and  trying  to  rally  her 
men,  had  been  surrounded,  dragged  from  her  horse, 
and  made  a  prisoner.     She  had  led  her  last  charge. 

We  crossed  a  bridge  and  entered  the  city  and 
stopped  in  the  big  public  square  facing  Leroux's 
beautiful  statue  of  Joan,  which  the  later  "friends  of 
Compi^gne"  have  raised  to  her  memory.  It  is  Joan 
in  semi-armor,  holding  aloft  her  banner,  and  on  the 
base  in  old  French  is  inscribed  "Je  Yray  voir  mes 
bons  amys  de  Compiigne''  ("I  will  go  to  see  my  good 
friends  of  Compidgne"). 

Many  things  in  Compi^gne  are  beautiful,  but  not 
many  of  them  are  very  old.  Joan's  statue  looks 
toward  the  handsome  and  richly  ornamented  H6tel 
de  Ville,  but  Joan  could  not  have  seen  it  in  life,  for 
it  dates  a  hundred  years  after  death.  There  are  two 
handsome  churches,  in  one  or  both  of  which  she 
doubtless  worshiped  when  she  had  first  delivered 
the  city;  possibly  a  few  houses  of  that  ancient  time 
still  survive. 

We  looked  into  the  churches,  but  they  seemed 
better  on  the  outside.  Then  I  discovered  that  one 
of  our  back  tires  was  down,  and  we  drew  up  in  a 
secluded  nook  at  the  rear  of  St.  Jacques  for  repairs. 
It  was  dusk  by  the  time  we  had  finished,  the  end  of 
that  long  June  day,  and  we  had  no  time  to  hunt  for 
a  cozy  inn.  So  we  went  to  a  hotel  which  stands 
opposite  the  great  palace  which  the  architect  Gabriel 
built  for  Louis  XV,  and  looked  across  to  it  while  we 
ate  our  dinner,  and  talked  of  our  day's  wanderings, 
and  of  palaces  in  general  and  especially  queens;  also 
of  Joan,   and  of  the  beautiful  roads  and  fields  of 


242         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

flowers,  and  of  the  little  birds  that  tried  to  hurry  us 
along,  and  so  were  very  happy  and  very  tired  indeed. 

Next  morning  we  visited  the  palace.  It  has  been 
much  occupied  by  royalty,  for  Compiegne  was  always  a 
favorite  residence  of  the  rulers  of  France.  Napoleon 
came  there  with  the  Empress  Marie  Louise,  and  Louis 
Philippe  and  Napoleon  III  both  foimd  retirement  there. 

I  think  it  could  not  have  been  a  very  inviting  or 
restful  home.  There  are  long  halls  and  picture  gal- 
leries, all  with  shiny  floors  and  stiffly  placed  proper- 
ties, and  the  royal  suites  are  just  a  series  of  square, 
prettily  decorated  and  upholstered  boxes,  strung 
together,  with  doors  between.  One  might  as  well 
set  up  a  series  of  screens  in  a  long  hall.  Even  with 
the  doors  shut  there  could  not  have  been  much  sense 
of  privacy,  certainly  none  of  snugness.  But  then 
palaces  were  not  meant  to  be  cozy.  We  saw  the  bed- 
rooms and  dressing  rooms  and  what  not  of  the  various 
queens,  and  we  looked  from  an  upper  window  down 
a  long  forest  avenue  that  was  finer  than  anything 
inside.  Then  we  went  back  to  the  car  and  drove 
into  the  big  forest  for  ten  nules  or  more,  to  an  old 
feudal  castle — such  a  magnificent  old  castle,  all 
towers  and  turrets  and  battlements — ^the  chMeau  of 
Pierrefonds,  one  of  the  finest  in  France. 

It  stands  upon  a  rocky  height  overlooking  a  lake, 

and  it  does  not  seem  so  old,  though  it  had  been  there 

forty  years  when  Joan  of  Arc  came,  and  it  looks  as  if 

it  might  be  there  about  as  long  as  the  hill  it  stands 

on.     It  was  built  by  Louis  of  Orleans,  brother  of 

Charles  VI,  and  the  storm  of  battle  has  raged  often 

about  its  base.  Here  and  there  it  still  shows  the  mark 
/ 


THE  DAMAGE  REPAIRED  243 

of  bombardment,  and  two  cannon  balls  stick  fast  in 
the  wall  of  one  of  its  solid  towers.  Pierrefonds  was 
in  bad  repair,  had  become  well-nigh  a  ruin,  in  fact, 
when  Napoleon  III,  at  his  own  expense,  engaged 
Viollet  le  Due  to  restore  it,  in  order  that  France 
might  have  a  perfect  type  of  the  feudal  castle  in  its 
original  form.  It  stands  to-day  as  complete  in  its 
structure  and  decoration  as  it  was  when  Louis  of 
Orleans  moved  in,  more  than  five  hundred  years  ago, 
and  it  conveys  exactly  the  soHd  home  surroundings 
of  the  mediaeval  lord.  It  is  just  a  show  place  now, 
and  its  vast  court,  its  chapel  and  its  haUs  of  state 
are  all  splendid  enough,  though  nothing  inside  can 
be  quite  so  magnificent  as  its  mighty  assemblage  of 
towers  and  turrets  rising  above  the  trees  and  reflect- 
ing in  the  blue  waters  of  a  placid  lake. 

It  began  raining  before  we  got  to  Paris,  so  we  did 
not  stop  at  Cr6py-en-Valois,  or  Senlis,  or  Chantilly, 
or  St.  Denis,  though  all  that  land  has  been  famous 
for  kings  and  castles  and  bloodshed  from  a  time 
farther  back  than  the  days  of  Caesar.  We  were 
interested  in  all  those  things,  but  we  agreed  we  could 
not  see  everything.  Some  things  we  saw  as  we  went 
by;  great  gray  walls  and  crumbling  church  towers, 
and  then  we  were  at  the  gates  of  Paris  and  presently 
threading  our  way  through  a  tangle  of  streets,  barred, 
many  of  them,  because  the  top  of  the  subway  had 
been  tumbling  in  a  few  days  before  and  travel  was  dan- 
gerous. It  was  Sunday,  too,  and  the  streets  were  es- 
pecially full  of  automobiles  and  pedestrians.  It  was 
almost  impossible  to  keep  from  injuring  something.  I 
do  not  care  for  Paris,  not  from  the  driving  seat  of  a  car. 


Chapter  XXII 

FROM  PARIS  TO  CHARTRES  AND  CHATEAUDUN 

IN  fact,  neither  the  Joy  nor  I  hungered  for  any  more 
Paris,  while  the  others  had  seen  their  fill.  So  we 
were  off,  with  only  a  day's  delay,  this  time  taking  the 
road  to  Versailles.  There  we  put  in  an  hour  or  two 
wandering  through  the  vast  magnificence  of  the 
palace  where  the  great  Louis  XIV  lived,  loved,  and 
died,  and  would  seem  to  have  spent  a  good  part  of 
his  time  having  himself  painted  in  a  variety  of  advan- 
tageous situations,  such  as  riding  at  the  head  of 
victorious  armies,  or  occupying  a  comfortable  seat 
in  Paradise,  giving  orders  to  the  gods. 

They  were  weak  kings  who  followed  him.  The 
great  Louis  reigned  seventy-two  years — prodigal 
years,  but  a  period  of  military  and  artistic  conquest 
— the  golden  age  of  French  Hterature.  His  suc- 
cessor reigned  long  enough — ^fifty-nine  years — but  he 
achieved  nothing  worth  while,  and  the  next  one  lost 
his  head.  We  saw  the  little  balcony  where  the 
doomed  Louis  XVI  and  Marie  Antoinette  showed 
themselves  to  the  mob — the  "deluge"  which  the 
greater  Louis  had  once  predicted. 

The  palace  at  Versailles  is  like  other  royal  palaces 
of  France — a  fine  show  place,  an  excellent  museum, 
but  never  in  its  day  of  purest  domesticity  could  it 
have  been  called  "a  happy  little  home."    Everything 


CHARTRES  AND  CHATEAUDUN    245 

IS  on  too  extended  a  scale.  Its  garden  was  a  tract 
of  marshy  land  sixty  miles  in  circimiference  until 
Louis  XIV  set  thirty-six  thousand  men  at  it,  turning 
it  into  fairyland.  Laborers  died  by  the  score  during 
the  work,  and  each  night  the  dead  were  carted  away. 
When  this  was  mentioned  to  the  king  he  was  troubled, 
fearing  his  supply  of  men  might  not  last.  However, 
the  garden  was  somehow  completed.  Possibly  Louis 
went  out  and  dug  in  it  a  little  himself. 

It  is  stiU  a  Garden  of  Eden,  with  leafy  avenues,  and 
lakes,  and  marvelous  fountains,  and  labyrinths  of 
flowers.  Looking  out  over  it  from  the  palace  windows 
we  remembered  how  the  king  had  given  Madame 
Maintenon  a  simimer  sleigh-ride,  causing  long  avenues 
to  be  spread  with  sugar  and  salt  to  gratify  her  idly- 
expressed  whim.  I  am  sorry,  of  course,  that  the 
later  Louis  had  to  lose  his  head,  but  on  the  whole  I 
think  it  is  very  weU  that  France  discouraged  that 
line  of  kings. 

Versailles  is  full  of  palaces.  There  is  the  Grand 
Trianon,  which  Louis  XIV  built  for  Madame  Main- 
tenon  when  she  had  grown  weary  of  the  great  palace, 
and  the  Petit  Trianon,  which  Louis  XV  gave  to  Du 
Barry  and  where  Marie  Antoinette  built  her  Swiss 
village  and  played  at  farm  life.  There  is  no  reason 
I  should  dwell  on  these  places.  Already  volumes 
have  been  written  of  the  tragic,  gay,  dissolute  life 
they  have  seen,  the  gorgeous  moving  panoramas 
that  might  have  been  pictures  passing  in  a  looking- 
glass  for  all  the  substance  they  have  left  behind. 

Somewhere  below  Versailles,  in  the  quietest  spot 
we  could  find,  by  a  still  stream  that  ran  between  the 


246         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

meadow  and  the  highroad,  we  made  our  luncheon 
and  were  glad  we  were  not  kings.  Being  royalty 
was  a  gaudy  occupation,  but  too  doubtful,  too  open 
to  criticism.  One  of  those  Louis  families,  for  instance, 
could  never  have  stopped  their  motor  by  the  roadside 
and  prepared  their  limcheon  in  our  modest,  unosten- 
tatious way.  They  would  have  had  all  manner  of 
attendants  and  guards  watching  them,  and  an  audi- 
ence would  have  collected,  and  some  excited  person 
might  have  thrown  a  brick  and  hit  the  jam.  No,  we 
would  rather  be  just  plain,  imobtrusive  people,  with- 
out audience,  and  with  no  attendance  but  the  car, 
waiting  there  in  the  shade  to  carry  us  deeper  into 
this  Land  of  Heart's  Desire. 

It  was  at  Rambouillet  that  we  lodged,  an  ancient 
place  with  a  chateau  and  a  vast  park;  also  an  excel- 
lent inn — the  Croix  Blanche — one  of  those  that  you 
enter  by  driving  through  to  an  inner  court.  Before 
dinner  we  took  a  walk  into  the  park,  along  the  lake- 
side and  past  the  chateau,  which  is  a  curious  archi- 
tectural mixture  and  not  very  sightly.  But  it  is 
mingled  with  history.  Francis  I  died  there  in  1547, 
and  as  late  as  1830  the  last  Charles,  the  tenth  of  that 
name,  signed  his  abdication  there. 

It  was  too  late  for  the  place  to  be  open,  and  in  any 
case  we  did  not  care  to  go  in.  We  had  had  enough 
of  palaces  for  one  day.  We  followed  around  the  lake 
to  an  avenue  of  splendid  Louisiana  cypresses  which 
some  old  king  had  planted.  Beyond  the  avenue 
the  way  led  into  deeper  wildernesses — a  noble  wood. 
We  made  a  backward  circuit  at  length,  for  it  was 
evening  and  the  light  was  fading.     In  the  mysteri- 


CHARTRES  AND  CHATEAUDUN    247 

ous  half-light  there  was  something  almost  spectral 
in  that  sylvan  place  and  we  spoke  in  hushed  voices. 
Presently  we  came  to  a  sort  of  bower,  and  then  to 
an  artificial  grotto — old  trysting  places.  Ah,  me! 
Monsieur  and  mademoiselle,  or  madame,  are  no 
longer  there;  the  powdered  hair,  the  ruffled  waist- 
coat and  looped  gown,  the  silken  hose  and  dainty 
footgear,  the  subdued  laugh  and  whispered  word,  all 
have  vanished.  How  vacant  those  old  places  seemed! 
We  did  not  linger — it  was  a  time  for  ghosts. 

We  were  off  next  morning,  halting  for  a  little  at 
Maintenon  on  the  road  to  Chartres.  The  chateau  , 
attracted  us  and  the  beautiful  river  Eure.  The 
widow  of  the  poet  Scarron,  who  married  Louis  XIV 
and  became  Marquise  de  Maintenon,  owned  the 
chateau,  and  it  belongs  to  the  family  to  this  day. 
An  attendant  permitted  us  to  see  the  picture  gallery 
and  a  portion  of  the  groimds.  All  seemed  as  lux- 
urious as  Versailles.  It  is  thirty-five  miles  from 
Maintenon  to  Versailles,  but  Louis  started  to  build 
an  aqueduct  to  carry  the  waters  of  the  Eure  to  his 
gardens.  He  kept  thirty  thousand  soldiers  working 
on  it  for  four  years,  but  they  died  faster  than  he 
could  replace  them,  which  was  such  a  bother  that 
he  abandoned  the  imdertaking. 

Following  the  rich  and  lovely  valley  of  the  Eure, 
we  came  to  Chartres,  and  made  our  way  to  the 
Cathedral  square.  We  had  seen  the  towers  from  a 
long  distance,  and  remembered  the  saying  that 
"The  choir  of  Beauvais,  the  nave  of  Amiens,  the 
portal  of  Rheims,  and  the  towers  of  Chartres  would 
together  make  the  finest  church  in  the  world."    To 

17 


248         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

confess  the  truth,  I  did  not  think  the  towers  of  Char- 
tres  as  handsome  as  those  of  either  Rouen  or  Amiens. 
But  then  I  am  not  a  purist  in  cathedral  architecture. 
Certainly  the  cathedral  itself  is  glorious.  I  shall  not 
attempt  to  describe  it.  Any  number  of  men  have 
written  books,  trying  to  do  that,  and  most  of  them 
have  failed.  I  only  know  that  the  wonder  of  its 
architecture — the  marvel  of  its  relief  carving,  "lace 
in  stone,"  and  the  sublime  glory  of  its  windows — 
somehow  possessed  us,  and  we  did  not  know  when 
to  go.  I  met  a  woman  once  who  said  she  had  spent 
a  month  at  Chartres  and  had  put  in  most  of  it  sitting 
in  the  cathedral  looking  at  those  windows.  When 
she  told  me  of  it  I  had  been  inclined  to  be  scornful. 
I  was  not  so  any  more.  Those  windows,  made  by 
some  unknown  artist,  dead  five  hundred  years,  invite 
a  lifetime  of  contemplation. 

It  is  about  nine  hundred  years  since  the  cathedral 
of  Chartres  was  begun,  and  it  has  known  many 
changes.  Four  hundred  years  ago  one  of  its  towers 
was  rebuilt  in  an  altogether  different  pattern  from 
the  other.  I  believe  this  variation  is  regarded  as  a 
special  feature  of  their  combined  beauty.  Chapels 
have  been  added,  wings  extended;  changes  inside 
and  out  were  always  going  on  during  the  first  five 
hundred  years  or  so,  but  if  the  builders  made  any 
mistakes  we  failed  to  notice  them.  It  remains  a 
unity,  so  far  as  we  could  see — a  supreme  expression 
of  the  old  faith,  whose  material  labor  was  more  than 
half  spiritual,  and  for  whom  no  sacrifice  of  money 
or  endeavor  was  too  great. 

We  left  Chartres  by  one  of  the  old  city  gates,  and 


CHARTRES  AND  CHATEAUDUN    249 

took  the  wrong  road,  and  presently  found  ourselves 
in  an  open  field,  where  our  way  dwindled  out  and 
stopped.  Imagine  a  road  good  enough  to  be  mis- 
taken for  a  highway,  leading  only  to  a  farmer's  grain- 
field.  So  we  went  back  and  got  set  right,  and  through 
a  heavenly  Jime  afternoon  followed  the  straight  level 
way  to  Ch^teaudun,  an  ancient  town  perched  upon 
the  high  cliffs  above  the  valley  of  the  Loir,  which  is 
a  different  river  from  the  Loire — much  smaller  and 
more  picturesque. 

The  chateau  itself  hangs  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
cliffs  with  startling  effect  and  looks  out  over  a  picture 
valley  as  beautiful  as  any  in  France.  This  was  the 
home  of  Dimois,  Bastard  of  Orleans,  who  left  it  to 
fight  imder  Joan  of  Arc.  He  was  a  great  soldier, 
one  of  her  most  loved  and  trusted  generals.  We 
spent  an  hour  or  more  wandering  through  Dimois's 
ancient  seat,  with  an  old  guardian  who  clearly  was 
in  love  with  every  stone  of  it,  and  who  time  and 
again  reminded  us  that  it  was  more  interesting  than 
many  of  the  great  chateaux  of  the  Loire,  Blois  espe- 
cially, in  that  it  had  been  scarcely  restored  at  all. 
About  the  latest  addition  to  Ch^teaudun  was  a  beau- 
tiful open  stairway  of  the  sixteenth  century,  in  perfect 
condition  to-day.  On  the  other  side  is  another 
fine  fagade  and  stairway,  which  Dimois  himself 
added.  In  a  niche  there  stands  a  fine  statue  of  the 
famous  soldier,  probably  made  from  life.  If  only 
some  sculptor  or  painter  might  have  preserved  for 
us  the  features  of  Joan  I 


Chapter  XXIII 

WE   REACH   TOURS 

nPHROUGH  that  golden  land  which  lies  between 
■^  the  Loir  and  the  Loire  we  drifted  through  a  long 
summer  afternoon  and  came  at  evening  to  a  noble 
bridge  that  crossed  a  wide,  tranquil  river,  beyond 
which  rose  the  towers  of  ancient  Tours,  capital  of 
Touraine.  One  can  hardly  cross  the  river  Loire  for 
the  first  time  without  long  reflections.  Henry  James 
calls  the  Touraine  "a  gallery  of  architectural  spec- 
imens .  .  .  the  heart  of  the  old  French  monarchy," 
and  adds,  "as  that  monarchy  was  splendid  and  pic- 
turesque, a  reflection  of  the  splendor  still  glitters  in 
the  Loire.  Some  of  the  most  striking  events  of 
French  history  have  occurred  on  the  banks  of  that 
river,  and  the  soil  it  waters  bloomed  for  a  while  with 
the  flower  of  the  Renaissance." 

Touraine  was  a  favorite  place  for  kings,  and  the 
early  Henrys  and  Francises,  especially,  built  their 
magnificent  country  palaces  in  all  directions.  There 
are  more  than  fifty  ch§,teaux  within  easy  driving 
distance  of  Tours,  and  most  of  the  great  ones  have 
been  owned  or  occupied  by  Francis  I,  or  by  Henry 
II,  or  by  one  of  their  particular  favorites. 

We  did  not  intend  to  visit  all  of  the  chateaux  by 
any  means,  for  chateau  visiting,  from  a  diversion 
may    easily    degenerate    into    labor.    We    intended 


WE  REACH  TOURS  251 

especially  to  visit  Chinon,  where  Joan  of  Arc  went 
to  meet  the  king  to  ask  for  soldiers,  and  a  few  others, 
but  we  had  no  wish  to  put  in  long  summer  days 
mousing  about  old  dimgeons  and  dim  corridors,  or 
being  led  through  stiffly  set  royal  suites,  garishly 
furnished  and  restored.  It  was  better  to  glide  rest- 
fully  along  the  poppied  way  and  see  the  landscape 
presentment  of  those  stately  piles  crowning  the  hill- 
tops or  reflected  in  the  bright  waters  of  the  Loire. 
The  outward  semblance  of  the  land  of  romance 
remains  oftenest  tmdisturbed;  cross  the  threshold 
and  the  illusion  is  in  danger. 

At  the  Central  Hotel  of  Tours,  an  excellent  place 
of  modest  charges,  we  made  our  headquarters,  and 
next  morning,  with  little  delay,  set  out  for  Chinon  and 
incidental  chateaux.  "Half  the  charm  of  the  Loire," 
says  James,  "is  that  you  can  travel  beside  it."  He 
was  obUged  to  travel  very  leisiu-ely  beside  it  when 
that  was  written;  the  "flying  carpet"  had  not  then 
been  invented,  and  James,  with  his  dehberate  loco- 
motion, was  sometimes  unable  to  return  to  Tours 
for  the  night.  I  imagine  he  enjoyed  it  none  the  less 
for  that,  lazily  watching  the  smooth  water  of  the 
wide  shallow  stream,  with  never  a  craft  heavier  than 
a  flat-bottomed  hay  boat;  the  wide  white  road,  gay 
with  scarlet  poppies,  and  some  tall  purple  flower,  a 
kind  of  foxglove. 

I  do  not  remember  that  James  makes  mention  of 
the  cliff-dwellers  along  the  Loire.  Most  of  them 
live  in  houses  that  are  older,  I  suspect,  than  the 
oldest  chateau  of  Touraine.  In  the  beginning  there 
must  have  been  in  these  cliffs  natural  caves  occupied 


252         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

by  our  earliest  troglodyte  ancestors.  In  time,  as 
mentality  developed  and,  with  it,  imagination,  the 
original  shelters  were  shaped  and  enlarged  by  exca- 
vation, also  new  ones  built,  until  these  perpendicular 
banks  facing  the  Loire  became  the  dwelling  place 
for  himdreds,  even  thousands. 

They  are  still  nimierously  inhabited.  The  rooms 
or  houses — some  of  them  may  be  flats — range  one 
above  the  other  in  stories,  all  up  the  face  of  the  cliff, 
and  there  are  smoke-places  and  little  chimneys  in 
the  fields  at  the  top.  Such  houses  must  have  been 
here  before  the  kings  came  to  Touraine.  Some  of 
them  look  very  ancient;  some  have  crumbled  in; 
some  have  been  faced  with  stone  or  plaster.  The 
cliff  is  honeycombed  with  them.  Do  their  occupants 
have  traditional  rights  from  some  vague  time  without 
date?  Do  they  pay  rent,  and  to  whom?  We  might 
have  foimd  the  answers  to  these  questions  had  we 
cared  to  seek  for  them.  It  seemed  better  to  con- 
tent oneself  with  speculation.  We  did  not  visit  the 
cliff-dwellers  of  the  Loire. 

Neither  did  we  visit  the  chateau  of  Luynes  or  of 
Langeais.  Luynes  is  a  fine  old  feudal  pile  on  a 
hilltop  just  below  Tours,  splendid  from  the  road,  but 
it  had  no  compelling  history  and  we  agreed  that 
closer  view  could  not  improve  it.  Besides,  it  was 
hot,  sizzling,  for  a  climb;  so  hot  that  one  of  our  aging 
tubes  popped  presently,  and  Narcissa  and  I  had  to 
make  repairs  in  a  place  where  there  was  a  world  of 
poppies,  but  no  shade  for  a  mile.  That  was  one  of 
the  reasons  we  did  not  visit  Langeais.  Langeais  was 
exactly  on  the  road,  but  it  had  a  hard,  hot,  forbidding 


WE  REACH  TOURS  253 

look.  Furthermore,  our  book  said  that  it  had  been 
restored  and  converted  into  a  museum,  and  added 
that  its  chief  claim  on  history  lay  in  the  fact  that 
Anne  of  Brittany  was  here  married  to  Charles  VIII 
in  149 1.  That  fact  was  fine  to  reaUze  from  the  out- 
side, under  the  cool  shadow  of  those  gray  walls. 
One  could  lose  it  among  shiny  restorations  and  stuffy 
museum  tapestries. 

The  others  presently  noticed  a  pastry  shop  opposite 
the  chateau  and  spoke  of  getting  something  extra  for 
luncheon.  While  they  were  gone  I  discovered  a 
cafe  below  the  chS.teau  and,  being  pretty  dry,  I  slipped 
down  there  for  a  little  seltzer,  or  something.  The 
door  was  open,  but  the  place  was  empty.  There  was 
the  usual  display  of  bottles,  but  not  a  soul  was  in 
sight.  I  knocked,  then  called,  but  nobody  came.  I 
called  and  knocked  louder,  but  nothing  happened. 
Then  I  noticed  some  pennies  lying  by  an  empty  glass 
on  the  bar.  The  amoimt  was  small  and  I  left  them 
there.  A  side  door  was  open  and  I  looked  out 
into  a  narrow  passage  opening  into  a  coiuli  at  the 
back.  I  went  out  there,  still  signaling  my  distress. 
The  sun  was  blazing  and  I  was  getting  dryer 
every  minute.  Finally  a  stout,  smiling  woman 
appeared,  wiping  her  hands — from  the  washtub,  I 
judge.  She  went  with  me  into  the  caf6,  gathered 
up  the  loose  change  on  the  counter,  and  set  out  refresh- 
ments. Then  she  explained  that  I  could  have  helped 
myself  and  left  the  money.  Langeais  is  an  honest 
community. 

Following  down  the  Loire  we  came  to  a  bridge,  and, 
crossing  to  the  other  bank,  presently  foimd  ourselves 


254         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

in  a  country  where  there  were  no  visible  houses  at  all. 
But  there  was  shade,  and  we  camped  under  it  and  I 
did  some  tire  repairing  while  the  others  laid  out  the 
limcheon  and  set  the  Httle  cooker  going.  Later  we 
drowsed  in  the  shade  for  an  hour  or  more,  with 
desultory  talk  of  Joan,  and  of  Anne  of  Brittany,  and 
of  the  terrible  Catherine  de  Medici,  whose  son  the 
feeble  Francis  II  had  brought  his  young  wife,  Marie 
Stuart,  the  doomed  Queen  of  Scots,  to  Chenonceaux 
for  their  honeymoon.  It  was  strange  to  think  that 
this  was  the  environment  of  those  half-romantic 
figures  of  history.  Some  of  them,  perhaps  all,  had 
passed  this  very  spot.  And  so  many  others!  the 
Henrys,  the  Charleses,  the  Louises — the  sovereigns 
and  soldiers  and  court  favorites  for  four  himdred 
years.  What  a  procession — the  pageant  of  the 
Renaissance! 


Chapter  XXIV 

CHINON,   WHERE  JOAN  MET  THE  KING,   AND  AZAY 

/^^HINON  is  not  on  the  Loire,  but  on  a  tributary 
^^-^  a  little  south  of  it,  the  Vienne,  its  ruined  castle 
crowning  the  long  hill  or  ridge  above  the  town.  Some- 
time during  the  afternoon  we  came  to  the  outskirts 
of  the  ancient  place  and  looked  up  to  the  wreck  of 
battlements  and  towers  where  occurred  that  meeting 
which  meant  the  liberation  of  France. 

We  left  the  car  below  and  started  to  climb,  then 
found  there  was  a  road,  a  great  blessing,  for  the  heat 
was  intense.  There  is  a  village  just  above  the  castle, 
and  we  stopped  there. 

The  chateau  of  Chinon  to-day  is  the  remains  of 
what  originally  was  three  chateaux,  built  at  different 
times,  but  so  closely  stnmg  together  that  in  ruin 
they  are  scarcely  divided.  The  oldest,  Coudray, 
was  built  in  the  tenth  century  and  still  shows  three 
towers  standing,  in  one  of  which  Joan  of  Arc  lived 
during  her  stay  at  Chinon.  The  middle  chateau  is 
not  as  old  by  a  hundred  years.  It  was  built  on  the 
site  of  a  Roman  fort,  and  it  was  in  one  of  its  rooms,  a 
fragment  of  which  still  remains,  that  Charles  VII 
received  the  shepherd  girl  from  Domremy.  The 
chateau  of  St.  George  was  built  in  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury by  Henry  II  of  England,  who  died  there  in  1189. 


2s6         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Though  built   two  hundred  years   after  Coudray, 
nothing  of  it  survives  but  some  foundations. 

Chinon  is  a  much  more  extensive  ruin  than  we  had 
expected.  Even  what  remains  to-day  must  be  nearly 
a  quarter  of  a  nule  in  length,  and  its  vast  cnmibling 
walls  and  towers  make  it  strikingly  picturesque. 
But  its  ruin  is  complete,  none  the  less.  Once  through 
the  entrance  tower  and  you  are  imder  nothing  but 
the  sky,  with  your  feet  on  the  grass;  there  is  no  longer 
a  shelter  there,  even  for  a  fugitive  king.  You  wan- 
der about,  viewing  it  scarcely  more  than  as  a  ruin, 
at  first,  a  place  for  painting,  for  seclusion,  for  dream- 
ing in  the  sim.  Then  all  at  once  you  are  facing  a 
wall  in  which,  halfway  up  where  once  was  the  second 
story,  there  is  a  restored  fireplace  and  a  tablet  which 
tells  you  that  in  this  room  Charles  VII  received  Joan 
of  Arc.  It  is  not  a  room  now;  it  is  just  a  wall,  a 
fragment,  with  vines  matting  its  ruined  edges. 

You  cross  a  stone  footbridge  to  the  tower  where 
Joan  lived,  and  that,  too,  is  open  to  the  sky,  and  bare 
and  desolate.  Once,  beyond  it,  there  was  a  little 
chapel  where  she  prayed.  There  are  other  fragments 
and  other  towers,  but  they  merely  serve  as  a  setting 
for  those  which  the  intimate  presence  of  Joan  made 
sacred. 

The  Maid  did  not  go  immediately  to  the  castle  on 
her  arrival  in  Chinon.  She  put  up  at  an  inn  down 
in  the  town  and  waited  the  king's  pleasure.  His 
paltering  advisers  kept  him  dallying,  postponing  his 
consent  to  see  her,  but  through  the  favor  of  his 
mother-in-law,  Yolande,  Queen  of  Sicily,  Joan  and 
her  suite  were  presently  housed  in  the  tower  of 


CHINON  AND  AZAY  257 

Coudray.  One  wonders  if  the  walls  were  as  bare 
as  now.  It  was  old  even  then;  it  had  been  built 
five  hundred  years.  But  Queen  Yolande  would  have 
seen  to  it  that  there  were  comforts,  no  doubt;  some 
tapestries,  perhaps,  on  the  walls;  a  table,  chairs,  some 
covering  for  the  stone  floor.  Perhaps  it  was  even 
luxurious. 

The  king  was  still  imready  to  see  Joan.  She  was 
only  a  stone's  throw  away,  but  the  whisperings  of 
his  advisers  kept  her  there,  while  a  commission  of 
priests  went  to  Domremy  to  inquire  as  to  her  char- 
acter. When  there  were  no  further  excuses  for  delay 
they  contrived  a  trick — a  deception.  They  per- 
suaded the  king  to  put  another  on  the  throne,  one 
like  him  and  in  his  royal  dress,  so  that  Joan  might 
pay  homage  to  this  make-believe  king,  thus  proving 
that  she  had  no  divine  power  or  protection  which 
would  assist  her  in  identifying  the  real  one. 

In  the  space  where  now  is  only  green  grass  and  sky 
and  a  broken  wall  Charles  VII  and  his  court  gathered 
to  receive  the  shepherd  girl  who  had  come  to  restore 
his  kingdom.  It  was  evening  and  the  great  hall  was 
lighted,  and  at  one  end  of  it  was  the  throne  with  its 
imitation  king,  and  I  suppose  at  the  other  the  fire- 
place with  a  blazing  fire.  Down  the  center  of  the 
room  were  the  courtiers,  formed  in  two  ranks,  facing 
so  that  Joan  might  pass  between  them  to  the  throne. 
The  occasion  was  one  of  great  ceremony — Joan  and 
her  suite  were  welcomed  with  fine  honors.  Banners 
waved,  torches  flared;  trumpets  blown  at  intervals 
marked  the  stages  of  her  progress  down  the  great 
hall;    every   show  was  made  of  paying  her  great 


258         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

honor — everything  that  would  distract  her  and  blind 
her  to  their  trick. 

Charles  VII,  dressed  as  a  simple  courtier,  stood  a 
little  distance  from  the  throne.  Joan,  advancing 
to  within  a  few  steps  of  the  pretended  king,  raised 
her  eyes.  Then  for  a  moment  she  stood  silent, 
puzzled.  They  expected  her  to  kneel  and  make 
obeisance,  but  a  moment  later  she  turned  and, 
hurrying  to  the  rightful  Charles,  dropped  on  her 
knees  and  gave  him  heartfelt  salutation.  She  had 
never  seen  him  and  was  "without  knowledge  of  his 
features.  Her  protectors,  or  her  gifts,  had  not  failed. 
It  was  perhaps  the  greatest  moment  in  French 
history. 

We  drove  down  into  Chinon,  past  the  house  where 
it  is  said  that  Rabelais  was  bom,  and  saw  his  statue, 
and  one  of  Joan  which  was  not  very  pleasing.  Then 
we  threaded  some  of  the  older  streets  and  saw  houses 
which  I  think  cannot  have  changed  much  since  Joan 
was  there.  It  was  getting  well  toward  evening  now, 
and  we  set  out  for  Tours,  by  way  of  Azay. 

The  chateau  of  Azay-le-Rideau  is  all  that  Chinon 
is  not.  Perfect  in  condition,  of  rare  beauty  in  design 
and  ornamentation,  fresh,  almost  new  in  appearance, 
Azay  presents  about  the  choicest  flowering  of  the 
Renaissance.  Joan  of  Arc  had  been  dead  a  hundred 
years  when  Azay  was  built;  France  was  no  longer 
in  dread  of  blighting  invasion;  a  residence  no  longer 
needed  to  be  a  fortress.  The  royal  ch§,teaux  of  the 
Loire  are  the  best  remaining  evidence  of  what  Joan 
had  done  for  the  security  of  her  kings.  Whether 
they  deserved  it  or  not  is  another  matter. 


CHINON  AND  AZAY  259 

Possibly  Azay-le-Rideau  might  not  have  looked 
so  fresh  under  the  glare  of  noonday,  but  in  the  mellow 
light  of  evening  it  could  have  been  the  home  of  one 
of  our  modem  millionaires  (a  millionaire  of  perfect 
taste,  I  hasten  to  add),  and  located,  let  us  say,  in  the 
vicinity  of  Newport.  It  was  difficult  to  believe  that 
it  had  been  standing  for  four  centuries. 

Francis  I  did  not  build  Azay-le-Rideau.  But  he 
liked  it  so  much  when  he  saw  it  (he  was  probably  on 
a  visit  to  its  owner,  the  French  treasurer,  at  the  time) 
that  he  promptly  confiscated  it  and  added  it  to  the 
collection  of  other  chateaux  he  had  built,  or  confis- 
cated, or  had  in  mind.  Nothing  very  remarkable 
seems  to  have  happened  there — just  the  usual  things — 
plots,  and  liaisons,  and  intrigues  of  a  general  sort, 
with  now  and  then  a  chapter  of  real  lovemaking, 
and  certain  marriages  and  deaths — the  latter  hurried 
a  httle  sometimes  to  accommodate  the  impatient 
mourners. 

But  how  beautiful  it  is!  Its  towers,  its  stately 
facades,  its  rich  ornamentation  reflected  in  the  water 
of  the  wide  stream  that  sweeps  about  its  base,  a 
natural  moat,  its  background  of  rich  foliage — these, 
in  the  gathering  twiHght,  completed  a  picture  such 
as  Hawthorne  could  have  conceived,  or  Edgar  Poe. 

I  suppose  it  was  too  late  to  go  inside,  but  we  did 
not  even  apply.  Like  Langeais,  it  belongs  to  France 
now,  and  I  beUeve  is  something  of  a  musetun,  and 
rather  modem.  One  could  not  risk  carrying  away 
anything  less  than  a  perfect  memory  of  Azay. 


Chapter  XXV 

TOURS 

TN  the  quest  for  outlying  chateaux  one  is  likely  to 
^  forget  that  Tours  itself  is  very  much  worth  while. 
Tours  has  been  a  city  ever  since  France  had  a  history, 
and  it  fought  against  Caesar  as  far  back  as  52  b.c. 
It  took  its  name  from  the  Gallic  tribe  of  that  section, 
the  Turoni,  dwellers  in  those  cliffs,  I  dare  say,  along 
the  Loire. 

Following  the  invasion  of  the  Franks  there  came 
a  line  of  coimts  who  ruled  Touraine  imtil  the  eleventh 
century.  What  the  himian  aspect  of  this  delectable 
land  was  under  their  dominion  is  not  very  clear. 
The  oldest  castle  we  have  seen,  Coudray,  was  not 
begim  imtil  the  end  of  that  period.  There  are  a 
thousand  years  behind  it  which  seem  filled  mainly 
with  shields  and  battle  axes,  roving  knights  and  fair 
ladies,  industrious  dragons  and  the  other  properties 
of  poetry.  Yet  there  may  have  been  more  prosaic 
things.     Seedtime  and  harvest  probably  did  not  fail. 

Totu-s  was  beloved  by  French  royalty.  It  was  the 
capital  of  a  province  as  rich  as  it  was  beautiful. 
Among  French  provinces  Touraine  was  always  the 
aristocrat.  Its  language  has  been  kept  piu-e.  To 
this  day  the  purest  French  in  the  world  is  spoken  at 
Tours.  The  mechanic  who  made  some  repairs  for 
me  at  the  garage  leaned  on  the  mud  guard,  during  a 


TOURS  261 

brief  intermission  of  that  hottest  of  days,  and  told 
me  about  the  purity  of  the  French  at  Tours;  and  if 
there  was  anything  wrong  with  his  own  locution  my 
ear  was  not  fine  enough  to  detect  it.  To  me  it  seemed 
as  hmpid  as  something  distilled.  Imagine  such  a 
thing  happening  in — say  New  Haven.  Tours  is  still 
proud,  still  the  aristocrat,  still  royal. 

The  Germans  held  Tours  during  the  early  months 
of  187 1,  but  there  is  no  trace  of  their  occupation  now. 
It  was  a  bad  dream  which  Tours  does  not  care  even 
to  remember.* 

Tours  contains  a  fine  cathedral,  also  the  remains 
of  what  must  have  been  a  still  finer  one — two  noble 
towers,  so  widely  separated  by  streets  and  buildings 
that  it  is  hard  to  imagine  them  ever  having  belonged 
to  one  structure.  They  are  a  part  of  the  business 
of  Tours,  now.  Shops  are  under  them,  lodgings  in 
them.  If  they  should  tumble  down  they  would  create 
havoc.  I  was  so  sure  they  would  cnmible  that  we 
did  not  go  into  them;  besides,  it  was  very  warm. 
The  great  church  which  connected  these  towers  was 
dedicated  to  St.  Martin,  the  same  who  divided  his 
cloak  with  a  beggar  at  Amiens  and  became  Bishop 
of  Tours  in  the  fourth  century.  It  was  destroyed 
once  and  magnificently  rebuilt,  but  it  will  never  be 
rebuilt  now.  One  of  these  old  reUcs  is  called  the 
Clock  tower,  the  other  the  tower  of  Charlemagne,  be- 
cause Luitgard,  his  third  queen,  was  buried  beneath  it. 

The  cathedral  at  the  other  end  of  town  appears 
not  to  have  suffered  much  from  the  ravages  of  time 

*  Tours  during  the  World  War  became  a  great  training  camp, 
familiar  to  thousands  of  American  soldiers. 


262        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

and  battle,  though  one  of  the  towers  was  undergoing 
some  kind  of  repairs  that  required  intricate  and 
lofty  scaffolding.  Most  of  the  cathedrals  are  vinder- 
going  repairs,  which  is  not  surprising  when  one 
remembers  the  dates  of  their  beginnings.  This  one 
at  Tours  was  commenced  in  1170  and  the  building 
continued  during  about  four  hundred  years.  Joan 
of  Arc  worshiped  in  it  when  she  was  on  her  way  to 
Chinon  and  again  when  she  had  set  out  to  relieve 
Orleans. 

The  face  of  the  cathedral  is  indeed  beautiful — 
"a  jewel,"  said  Henry  IV,  "of  which  only  the  casket 
is  wanting."  It  does  not  seem  to  us  as  beautiful 
as  Rouen,  or  Amiens,  or  Chartres,  but  its  fluted 
tnmcated  towers  are  pecuHarly  its  own  and  hardly 
less  impressive. 

The  cathedral  itself  forms  a  casket  for  the  real 
jewel — the  tomb  of  the  two  children  of  Charles  VIII 
and  Anne  of  Brittany,  a  little  boy  and  girl,  exquisitely 
cut,  resting  side  by  side  on  a  slab  of  black  marble, 
guarded  at  their  head  and  feet  by  kneeling  angels. 
Except  the  slab,  the  tomb  is  in  white  marble  carved 
with  symbolic  decorations.  It  is  all  so  delicate  and 
conveys  such  a  feeling  of  purity  and  tenderness  that 
even  after  four  himdred  years  one  cannot  fail  to  feel 
something  of  the  love  and  sorrow  that  placed  it  there. 

Tours  is  full  of  landmarks  and  localities,  but  the 
intense  heat  of  the  end  of  Jime  is  not  a  good  time  for 
city  sight-seeing.  We  went  about  a  little  and  glanced 
at  this  old  street — such  as  Place  Plumeran — and 
that  old  chateau,  like  the  Tour  de  Guise,  now  a  bar- 
rack, and  passed  the  lli^tre  Mtmicipal,  and  the 


TOURS  163 

house  where  Balzac  was  bom,  and  stood  impressed 
and  blinking  before  the  great  Palace  of  Justice, 
blazing  in  the  sun  and  made  more  brilliant,  more 
dazzling  by  the  intensely  red-legged  soldiers  that  in 
couples  and  groups  are  always  loitering  before  it. 
I  am  convinced  that  to  touch  those  red-hot  trousers 
would  take  the  skin  off  one's  fingers. 

We  might  have  examined  Tours  more  carefully  if 
we  had  been  driving  instead  of  walking.  I  have 
spoken  of  the  car  being  in  the  garage.  We  cracked 
the  leaf  of  a  spring  that  day  at  Chinon,  and  then  our 
tires,  old  and  worn  after  five  thousand  miles  of  loyal 
service,  required  reenforcement.  They  really  required 
new  ones,  but  our  plan  was  to  get  home  with  these 
if  we  could.  Besides,  one  cannot  buy  new  tires  in 
American  sizes  without  sending  a  special  order  to 
the  factory — a  matter  of  delay.  The  Httle  man  at 
the  hotel,  who  had  more  energy  than  anyone  should 
display  in  such  hot  weather,  pumped  one  of  our 
back  tires  until  the  shoe  burst  at  the  rim.  This  was 
serious.  I  got  a  heavy  canvas  lining,  and  the  garage- 
man  patched  and  vxdcanized  and  sold  me  a  variety 
of  appUances.  But  I  could  foresee  trouble  if  the 
heat  continued. 
18 


Chapter  XXVI 

CHENONCEAUX  AND   AMBOISE 

(From  my  notebook) 

THIS  morning  we  got  away  from  Tours,  but  it  was  after  a 
strenuous  time.  It  was  one  of  those  sweltering  mornings, 
and  to  forward  matters  at  the  garage  I  helped  put  on  all  those 
repaired  tires  and  appliances,  and  by  the  time  we  were  through  I 
was  a  rag.  Narcissa  photographed  me,  because  she  said  she  had 
never  seen  me  look  so  interesting  before.  She  made  me  stand 
in  the  svm,  bareheaded  and  holding  a  tube  in  my  hand,  as  if  I 
had  not  enough  to  bear  already. 

Oh,  but  it  was  cool  and  delicious  gliding  along  the 
smooth,  shaded  road  toward  Chenonceaux!  One 
can  almost  afford  to  get  as  hot  and  sweltering  and 
cross  and  gasping  as  I  was  for  the  sake  of  sitting  back 
and  looking  across  the  wheel  down  a  leafy  avenue 
facing  the  breeze  of  your  own  making,  a  delicious 
nectar  that  bathes  you  through  and  cools  and  rests 
and  soothes — an  anodyne  of  peace. 

By  and  by,  being  really  cool  in  mind  and  body,  we 
drew  up  abreast  of  a  meadow  which  lay  a  little  below 
the  road,  a  place  with  a  brook  and  overspreading 
shade,  and  with  some  men  and  women  harvesting 
not  far  away.  We  thought  they  would  not  mind  if 
we  lunched  there,  and  I  think  they  must  have  been 
as  kind-hearted  as  they  were  picturesque,  for  they 
did  not  offer  to  disturb  us.     It  was  a  lovely  spot,  and 


CHENONCEAUX  AND  AMBOISE  265 

did  not  seem  to  belong  to  the  present-day  world  at 
all.  How  could  it,  with  the  home  of  Diana  of  Poi- 
tiers just  over  there  beyond  the  trees,  with  nest- 
ing places  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  all  about,  and 
with  these  haymakers,  whose  fashion  in  clothes 
has  not  much  minded  the  centuries,  to  add  the  Hv- 
ing  human  note  of  the  past  that  makes  imagination 
reaHty? 

Chenonceaux,  the  real  heart  of  the  royal  district, 
like  Chinon,  is  not  on  the  Loire  itself,  but  on  a  small 
tributary,  the  Cher.  I  do  not  remember  that  I 
noticed  the  river  when  we  entered  the  grounds,  but 
it  is  a  very  important  part  of  the  chateau,  which 
indeed  is  really  a  bridge  over  it — a  supremely  beauti- 
ful bridge,  to  be  sure,  but  a  bridge  none  the  less, 
entirely  crossing  the  pretty  river  by  means  of  a  series 
of  high  foimdation  arches.  Upon  these  arches  rises 
the  rare  edifice  which  Thomas  Bohier,  a  receiver- 
general  of  taxes,  began  back  in  1515  and  Catherine 
de'  Medici  finished  after  she  had  turned  out  Diana 
of  Poitiers  and  massacred  the  Huguenots,  and  needed 
a  quiet  place  for  retirement  and  reUgious  thought. 
Bohier  did  not  extend  Chenonceaux  entirely  across 
the  river.  The  river  to  him  merely  served  as  a  moat. 
The  son  who  followed  him  did  not  have  time  to  make 
additions.  Francis  I  came  along,  noticed  that  it 
was  different  from  the  other  chateaux  he  had  con- 
fiscated, and  added  it  to  his  collection.  Our  present- 
day  collectors  cut  a  poor  figure  by  the  side  of  Francis  I. 
Think  of  getting  together  assortments  of  bugs  and 
postage  stamps  and  ginger  jars  when  one  could  go 
out  and  pick  up  chateaux  I 


266         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

It  was  Francis's  son,  Henry  II,  that  gave  it  to 
Diana  of  Poitiers.  Henry  had  his  own  kind  of  a 
collection  and  he  used  his  papa's  chateaux  to  keep 
it  in.  As  he  picked  about  the  best  one  for  Diana,  we 
may  believe  that  he  regarded  her  as  his  choicest 
specimen.  Unfortunately  for  Diana,  Henry's  queen, 
the  terrible  Catherine,  outlived  him;  and  when,  after 
the  funeral,  Catherine  drove  around  by  Chenonceaux 
and  suggested  to  Diana  that  perhaps  she  would  like 
to  exchange  the  place  for  a  very  excellent  ch§,teau 
farther  up  the  road,  Chaumont,  we  may  assume  that 
Diana  moved  with  no  imseemly  delay.  Diana  tact- 
fully said  she  liked  Chaimiont  ever  so  much,  for  a 
change,  that  perhaps  Hving  on  a  hilltop  was  healthier 
than  over  the  water,  anyway.  Still,  it  must  have 
made  her  sigh,  I  think,  to  know  that  her  succes- 
sor was  carrying  out  the  plan  which  Diana  herself 
had  conceived  of  extending  Chenonceaux  across  the 
Cher. 

We  stopped  a  little  to  look  at  the  beautiful  facade 
of  Chenonceaux,  then  crossed  the  drawbridge,  or 
what  is  now  the  substitute  for  it,  and  were  welcomed 
at  the  door  by  just  the  proper  person — a  fine,  dignified 
woman  of  gentle  voice  and  perfect  knowledge.  She 
showed  us  through  the  beautiful  home,  for  it  is  still 
a  home,  the  property  to-day  of  M.  Meunier  of  choc- 
olate fame  and  fortune.  I  cannot  say  how  glad  I 
am  that  M.  Meimier  owns  Chenonceaux.  He  has 
done  nothing  to  the  place  to  spoil  it,  and  it  is  not  a 
museimi.  The  lower  rooms  which  we  saw  have 
many  of  the  original  furnishings.  The  ornaments, 
the  tapestries,  the  pictures  are  the  same.     I  think 


CHENONCEAUX  AND  AMBOISE  267 

Diana  must  have  regretted  leaving  her  fine  private 
room,  with  its  chimney  piece,  supported  by  carya- 
tids, and  its  rare  Flemish  tapestry.  We  regretted 
leaving,  too.  We  do  not  care  for  interiors  that  have 
been  overhauled  and  refurbished  and  made  into 
museums,  but  we  were  in  no  hurry  to  leave  Chenon- 
ceaux.  There  is  hardly  any  place,  I  think,  where 
one  may  come  so  nearly  stepping  back  through  the 
centuries. 

We  went  out  into  the  long  wing  that  is  built  on  the 
arches  above  the  river,  and  looked  down  at  the  water 
flowing  below.  Our  conductor  told  us  that  the  sup- 
porting arches  had  been  built  on  the  foundations  of 
an  ancient  mill.  The  beautiful  gallery  which  the 
bridge  supports  must  have  known  much  gayety; 
much  dancing  and  promenading  up  and  down ;  much 
lovemaking  and  some  heartache. 

Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  seems  to  have  been  every- 
where. We  could  not  run  amiss  of  him  in  eastern 
France  and  in  Switzerland ;  now  here  again  he  turns 
up  at  Chenonceaux.  Chenonceaux  in  the  eighteenth 
century  fell  to  M.  Claude  Dupin,  farmer-general, 
who  surroimded  himself  with  the  foremost  artists 
and  social  leaders  of  his  time.  He  engaged  Rousseau 
to  superintend  the  education  of  his  son. 

"We  amused  ourselves  greatly  at  this  fine  place," 
writes  Rousseau;  "the  Hving  was  of  the  best,  and  I 
became  as  fat  as  a  monk.  We  made  a  great  deal  of 
music  and  acted  comedies." 

The  period  of  M.  Dupin's  ownership,  one  of  the 
most  briUiant,  and  certainly  the  most  moral  in  the 
earlier  history  of  Chenonceaux,  has  left  many  mem- 


268         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

ones.     Of  the  brief,  insipid  honeymoon  of  the  puny 
Francis  II  and  Mary  Stuart  no  breath  remains. 

Amboise  is  on  the  Loire,  and  there  is  a  good  inn 
on  the  quay.  It  was  evening  when  we  got  there,  and 
we  did  nothing  after  dinner  but  sit  on  the  high  masonry 
embankment  that  buttresses  the  river,  and  watch 
the  men  who  fished,  while  the  Hght  faded  from  the 
water;  though  we  occasionally  turned  to  look  at 
the  imposing  profile  of  the  great  ch§,teau  on  the  high 
cliff  above  the  Loire. 

We  drove  up  there  next  morning — that  is,  we 
drove  as  high  as  one  may  drive,  and  climbed  stairs 
the  remaining  distance.  Amboise  is  a  splendid, 
structure  from  without,  but,  unlike  Chenonceaux,  it 
is  interesting  within  only  for  what  it  has  been.  It  is 
occupied  by  the  superannuated  servants  of  the 
present  owner,  one  of  the  Orleans  family,  which  is 
fine  for  them,  and  proper  enough,  but  bad  for  the 
atmosphere.  There  are  a  bareness  and  a  whitewashed 
feeling  about  the  place  that  are  death  to  romance. 
Even  the  circular  inclined  plane  by  which  one  may 
ride  or  drive  to  the  top  of  the  great  tower  suggested 
some  sort  of  temporary  structure  at  an  amusement 
park  rather  than  a  convenience  for  kings.  I  was 
more  interested  in  a  low  doorway  against  the  lintel  of 
which  Charles  VIII  knocked  his  head  and  died.  But 
I  wish  I  could  have  picked  Charles  VII  for  that  acci- 
dent, to  pimish  him  for  having  abandoned  Joan  of  Arc. 

Though  about  a  hundred  years  older,  Amboise,  like 
Chenonceaux,  belongs  mainly  to  the  period  of  Francis 
I,   and  was  inhabited  by  the  same  society.    The 


CHENONCEAUX  AND  AMBOISE  269 

Francises  and  the  Henrys  enjoyed  its  hospitality, 
and  Catherine  de'  Medici,  and  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots. 
Also  some  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  Huguenots  who 
were  invited  there,  and,  at  Catherine's  suggestion, 
butchered  on  the  terrace  just  in  front  of  the  castle 
windows.  There  is  a  balcony  overlooking  the  ter- 
race, and  it  is  said  that  Catherine  and  Mary,  also 
Mary's  husband  and  his  two  brothers,  sat  on  the 
balcony  better  to  observe  the  spectacle.  Tradition 
does  not  say  whether  they  had  ices  served  or  not. 
Some  of  the  Huguenots  did  not  wait,  and  the  soldiers 
had  to  drown  what  they  could  catch  of  them  in  the 
Loire,  likewise  in  view  from  the  royal  balcony. 
When  the  show  was  over  there  was  suspended  from 
the  balcony  a  fringe  of  Huguenot  heads.  Those 
were  frivolous  times. 

There  is  a  flower  garden  to-day  on  the  terrace 
where  the  Huguenots  were  murdered,  and  one  may 
imagine,  if  he  chooses,  the  scarlet  posies  to  be  brighter 
for  that  history.  But  then  there  are  few  enough 
places  in  France  where  blossoms  have  not  been 
richened  by  the  hvunan  stain.  Consider  those 
vivid  seas  of  poppies!  Mary  Stuart,  by  the  way, 
seems  entitled  to  all  the  pity  that  the  centuries  have 
accorded  her.  There  were  few  influences  in  her 
early  life  that  were  not  vile. 

On  the  ramparts  at  Amboise  we  were  shown  a 
chapel,  with  the  grave  of  Leonardo  Da  Vinci,  who 
was  summoned  to  Amboise  by  Francis  I,  and  died 
there  in  1519.  There  is  a  question  about  da  Vinci's 
ashes  resting  here,  I  believe,  but  it  does  not  matter — 
it  is  his  grave. 


270         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

If  I  were  going  back  to  Amboise  I  would  view  it 
only  from  the  outside.  With  its  immense  tower  and 
its  beautiful  Gothic  and  Renaissance  facade  sur- 
moimting  the  heights  above  the  Loire,  nothing — 
nothing  in  the  world  could  be  more  beautiful. 


Chapter  XXVII 

CHAMBORD  AND   CLERY 

CRANCIS  I  had  a  fine  taste  for  collecting  chateaux 
■'■  picturesquely  located,  but  when  he  built  one  for 
himself  he  located  it  in  the  most  unbeautiful  situa- 
tion in  France.  It  requires  patience  and  talent  to 
find  monotony  of  prospect  in  France,  but  our  hero 
succeeded,  and  discovered  a  dead  flat  tract  of  thir- 
teen thousand  acres  with  an  approach  through  as 
dreary  a  level  of  unprosperous-looking  farm  district 
as  may  be  foimd  on  the  continent  of  Europe. 

It  is  not  on  the  Loire,  but  on  a  little  stream  called 
the  Cosson,  and  when  we  had  left  the  Loire  and 
foimd  the  coimtry  getting  flatter  and  poorer  and  less 
promising  with  every  mile,  we  could  not  believe  that 
we  were  on  the  right  road.  But  when  we  inquired, 
our  informants  still  pointed  ahead,  and  by  and  by, 
in  the  midst  of  nowhere  and  surrounded  by  nothing, 
we  came  to  a  great  inclosure  of  imdersized  trees, 
with  an  entrance.  Driving  in,  we  looked  down  a 
long  avenue  to  an  expanse  of  architecture  that  seemed 
to  be  growing  from  a  dead  level  of  sandy  park,  and 
to  have  attained  about  two  thirds  its  proper  height. 

An  old  man  was  raking  around  the  entrance  and 
we  asked  him  if  one  was  allowed  to  lunch  in  the  park. 
He  said,  "Oh  yes,  anywhere,"  and  gave  a  general 
wave  that  comprehended  the  whole  tract.    So  we 


272         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

turned  into  a  side  road  and  found  a  place  that  was 
shady  enough,  but  not  cool,  for  there  seemed  to  be 
no  large  overspreading  trees  in  this  park,  but  only 
small,  close,  bushy  ones.  It  is  said  that  Francis 
built  Chambord  for  two  reasons,  one  of  them  being 
the  memory  of  an  old  sweetheart  who  used  to  live 
in  the  neighborhood,  the  other  on  account  of  the 
abimdant  game  to  be  found  there.  I  am  inclined  to 
the  latter  idea.  There  is  nothing  in  the  location  to 
suggest  romance;  there  is  everything  to  suggest 
game.  The  twenty  square  miles  of  thicket  that  go 
with  Chambord  could  hardly  be  surpassed  as  a  harbor 
for  beast  and  bird. 

If  Chambord  was  built,  so  to  speak,  as  a  sort  of 
hunting  lodge,  it  is  the  largest  one  on  record.  Francis 
kept  eighteen  hundred  men  busy  at  it  for  twelve 
years,  and  then  did  not  get  it  done.  He  lived  in  it, 
more  or  less,  for  some  seven  years,  however;  then 
went  to  Rambouillet  to  die,  and  left  his  son,  Henry  II, 
to  carry  on  the  work.  Henry  did  not  care  for  Cham- 
bord— the  marshy  place  gave  him  fever,  but  he  kept 
the  building  going  until  he  was  killed  in  a  tourney, 
when  the  construction  stopped.  His  widow,  the 
bloody  Catherine  de'  Medici,  retired  to  Chambord 
in  her  old  age,  and  set  the  place  in  order.  She  was 
terribly  superstitious  and  surroimded  herself  with 
astrologers  and  soothsayers.  At  night  she  used  to 
go  up  to  the  great  lantern  tower  to  read  her  fortxme 
in  the  stars.  It  is  my  opinion  that  she  did  not  go 
up  there  alone,  not  with  that  record  of  hers. 

Mansard,  who  laid  a  blight  on  architecture  that 
lasted  for  two  himdred  years,  once  got  hold  of  Cham- 


CHAMBORD  AND  CL£RY  273 

bord  and  spoiled  what  he  could,  and  had  planned  to 
do  worse  things,  but  something — death,  perhaps — 
interfered.  That  was  when  Louis  XIV  brought 
Queen  Maria  Theresa  to  Chambord,  and  held  high 
and  splendid  court  there,  surrounding  himself  with 
brilliant  men  and  women,  among  them  MoH^re  and 
the  widow  of  the  poet  Scarron,  Frangoise  d'Aubign6, 
the  same  that  later  became  queen,  tmder  the  title  of 
Madame  de  Maintenon.  That  was  the  heyday  of 
Chambord 's  history.  A  large  guardroom  was  gilded 
and  converted  into  a  theater.  MoH^re  gave  first 
presentations  there  and  received  public  compliment 
from  the  king.  Diversion  was  the  order  of  the  day 
and  night. 

"The  court  is  very  gay — the  king  hunts  much," 
wrote  Maintenon;  "one  eats  always  with  him;  there 
is  one  day  a  ball,  and  the  next  a  comedy." 

Nothing  very  startling  has  happened  at  Chambord 
since  Louis'  time.  Its  tenants  have  been  nimierous 
enough,  and  royal,  or  distinguished,  but  they  could 
not  maintain  the  pace  set  by  Louis  XIV.  Stanislas 
Leckzinski,  the  exiled  Polish  king,  occupied  it  during 
the  early  years  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  marrying  his  daughter  to  the  dissolute 
Louis  XV.  Seventy  years  later  the  revolution  came 
along.  An  order  was  issued  to  sell  the  contents  of 
Chambord,  and  a  greedy  rabble  came  and  stripped 
it  clean.  There  was  a  further  decree  to  efface  all 
signs  of  royalty,  but  when  it  was  discovered  that 
every  bit  of  carving  within  and  without  the  vast 
place  expressed  royalty  in  some  manner,  and  that 
it  would  cost  twenty  thousand  dollars  to  cut  it  away, 


274         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

this  project  was  happily  abandoned.  Chambord 
was  left  empty  but  intact.  Whatever  has  been  done 
since  has  been  in  the  way  of  restoration. 

There  is  not  a  particle  of  shade  around  Chambord. 
It  stands  as  bare  and  exposed  to  the  blazing  sky 
to-day  as  it  did  when  those  eighteen  hundred  work- 
men laid  down  their  tools  four  hundred  years  ago. 
There  is  hardly  a  shrub.  Even  the  grass  looks  dis- 
couraged.   A  location,  indeed,  for  a  royal  palace! 

We  left  the  car  under  the  shade  of  a  wall  and  crossed 
a  dazzh'ng  open  space  to  the  entrance  of  a  court  where 
we  bought  entrance  tickets.  Then  we  crossed  the 
blinding  court  and  were  in  a  cool  place  at  last,  the 
wide  castle  entrance.  We  were,  surprised  a  little, 
though,  to  find  a  ticket  box  and  a  registering  turn- 
stile. Things  are  on  a  business  basis  at  Chambord. 
I  suppose  the  money  collected  is  used  for  repairs. 

The  best  advertised  feature  of  Chambord  is  the 
one  you  see  first,  the  great  spiral  double  stairway 
arranged  one  flight  above  the  other,  so  that  persons 
may  be  ascending  without  meeting  others  who  are 
descending  at  the  same  moment.  Many  persons 
would  not  visit  Chambord  but  for  this  special  show 
feature.  Our  conductor  made  us  ascend  and  descend 
to  prove  that  this  unrivaled  attraction  would  really 
work  as  advertised.  It  is  designed  on  the  principle 
of  the  double  stripes  on  a  barber  pole. 

But  there  are  other  worth-while  features  at  Cham- 
bord. We  wandered  through  the  great  cool  rooms, 
not  furnished,  yet  not  empty,  containing  as  they  do 
some  rare  pictures,  old  statuary  and  historic  furni- 
ture, despoiled  by  the  revolutionists,  now  restored 


CHAMBORD  AND  CLERY  175 

to  their  original  setting.  Chambord  is  not  a  museum. 
It  belongs  to  a  Duke  of  Parma,  a  direct  descendant 
from  Louis  XIV.  Under  Louis  XVIII  the  estate 
was  sold,  but  in  1821  three  hundred  thousand  dollars 
was  raised  by  pubHc  subscription  to  purchase  the 
place  for  the  remaining  heir  of  the  Bourbon  dynasty, 
the  Duke  of  Bordeaux,  who  accepted  with  the  gift 
the  title  of  the  Count  of  Chambord.  But  he  was 
in  exile  and  did  not  come  to  see  his  property  for  fifty 
years;  even  then  only  to  write  a  letter  renouncing 
his  claim  to  the  throne  and  to  say  once  more  good-by 
to  France.  He  willed  the  property  to  the  children 
of  his  sister,  the  Duchess  of  Parma,  and  it  is  to  the 
next  generation  that  it  belongs  to-day.  Our  con- 
ductor told  us  that  the  present  Duke  of  Parma  comes 
now  and  then  for  the  shooting,  which  is  still  of  the 
best. 

We  ascended  to  the  roof,  which  is  Chambord's 
chief  ornament.  It  is  an  architectural  garden. 
Such  elaboration  of  turrets  with  carved  leafwork 
and  symbolism,  such  richness  of  incrustation  and 
detail,  did,  in  fact,  suggest  some  fantastic  and  fabulous 
cultiu^.  If  it  had  not  been  all  fairly  leaping  with 
heat  I  should  have  wished  to  stay  longer. 

But  I  would  not  care  to  go  to  Chambord  again. 
As  we  drove  down  the  long  drive,  and  turned  a  little 
for  a  last  look  at  that  enormous  frontage,  those 
immense  low  towers,  that  superb  roof  structure — 
all  that  magnificence  dropped  down  there  in  a  dreary 
level — I  thought,  "If  ever  a  house  was  a  white 
elephant  that  one  is,  and  if  one  had  to  rename  it  it 
might  well  be  called  Francis's  Folly." 


276         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

I  suppose  it  was  two  hours  later  when  we  had  been 
drifting  drowsily  up  the  valley  of  the  Loire  that  we 
stopped  in  a  village  for  water.  There  was  an  old 
church  across  the  way,  and  as  usual  we  stepped 
inside,  as  much  for  the  cool  refreshment  as  for  any- 
thing, expecting  nothing  else  worth  while. 

How  easily  we  might  have  missed  the  wealth  we 
found  there.  We  did  not  know  the  name  of  the 
village.  We  did  not  recognize  C16ry,  even  when 
we  heard  it,  and  the  guidebook  gives  it  just  four  lines. 
But  we  had  been  inside  only  a  moment  when  we 
realized  that  the  Church  of  Our  Lady  of  Clery  is  an 
ancient  and  sacred  shrine.  A  great  tablet  told  us 
that  since  1325  kings  of  France,  sinners  and  saints 
have  made  pilgrimages  there;  Charles  IV,  Philippe 
VI,  Charles  VII,  St.  Frangois  Xavier,  and  so  down 
the  centuries  to  Marshal  MacMahon  of  our  own  time. 
But  to  us  greater  than  all  the  rest  are  the  names  of 
Dimois  and  Joan  of  Arc.  Joan  had  passed  this  way 
with  her  army,  of  course;  for  the  moment  we  had 
forgotten  that  we  were  following  her  footsteps  to 
Orleans. 

The  place  was  rich  in  relics.  Among  these  the 
tomb  of  Louis  XI  and  a  column  which  inclosed  the 
heart  of  Charles  VIII.  There  could  hardly  have 
been  a  shrine  in  France  more  venerated  in  the  past 
than  this  forgotten  church  by  the  roadside,  in  this 
forgotten  village  where,  I  suppose,  tourists  to-day 
never  stop  at  all.  It  was  hard  to  beHeve  in  the 
reality  of  otu"  discovery,  even  when  we  stood  there. 
But  there  were  the  tablets  and  inscriptions — ^they 
could  not  be  denied. 


CHAMBORD  AND  CLERY  277 

We  wandered  about,  finding  something  new  and 
precious  at  every  turn,  until  the  afternoon  light 
faded.  Then  we  crossed  a  long  bridge  over  the  Lx)ire 
to  the  larger  village  of  Meung,  where  there  was  the 
H6tel  St.  Jacques,  one  of  the  kind  we  like  best  and 
one  of  the  best  of  the  kind. 


Chapter  XXVIII 

ORLEANS 

'T'HERE  is  some  sight-seeing  to  be  done  in  Meung, 
'■•  but  we  were  too  anxious  to  get  to  Orleans  to  stop 
for  it.  Yet  we  did  not  huny  through  our  last  summer 
morning  along  the  Loire.  I  do  not  know  what  could 
be  more  lovely  than  our  leisurely  hour — the  distance 
was  fifteen  miles — under  cool,  outspreading  branches, 
with  glimpses  of  the  bright  river  and  vistas  of  happy 
fields. 

We  did  not  even  try  to  imagine,  as  we  approached 
the  outskirts,  that  the  Orleans  of  Joan's  time  pre- 
sented anything  of  its  appearance  to-day.  Orleans 
is  a  modem,  or  modernized,  city,  and,  except  the  river, 
there  could  hardly  be  an3rthing  in  the  present  pros- 
pect that  Joan  saw.  That  it  is  the  scene  of  her  first 
military  conquest  and  added  its  name  to  the  title 
by  which  she  belongs  to  history  is,  however,  enough 
to  make  it  one  of  the  holy  places  of  France. 

It  has  been  always  a  mihtary  city,  a  place  of  bat- 
tles. Caesar  burned  it,  Attila  attacked  it,  Clovis 
captured  it — there  was  nearly  always  war  of  one 
sort  or  another  going  on  there.  The  English  and 
Burgimdians  would  have  had  it  in  1429  but  for  the 
arrival  of  Joan's  army.  Since  then  war  has  visited 
Orleans  less  frequently.  Its  latest  experience  was 
with  the  Germans  who  invested  it  in  1870-71. 


ORLEANS  279 

Joan  was  misled  by  her  generals,  whose  faith  in 
her  was  not  complete.  Orleans  lies  on  the  north 
bank  of  the  Loire;  they  brought  her  down  on  the 
south  bank,  fearing  the  prowess  of  the  enemy's 
forces.  Discovering  the  deception,  the  Maid  promptly 
sent  the  main  body  of  her  troops  back  some  thirty- 
five  miles  to  a  safe  crossing,  and,  taking  a  thousand 
men,  passed  over  the  Loire  and  entered  the  city  by 
a  gate  still  held  by  the  French.  That  the  city  was 
not  completely  surroimded  made  it  possible  to  attack 
the  enemy  simultaneously  from  within  and  without, 
while  her  presence  among  the  Orl6anese  would  inspire 
them  with  new  hope  and  valor.  Mark  Twain  in 
his  Recollections  pictures  the  great  moment  of  her 
entry. 

It  was  eight  in  the  evening  when  she  and  her  troops  rode  in 
at  the  Burgtindy  gate.  .  .  .  She  was  riding  a  white  horse,  and 
she  carried  in  her  hand  the  sacred  sword  of  Fierbois.  You  should 
have  seen  Orleans  then.  What  a  picture  it  was!  Such  black  seas 
of  people,  such  a  starry  firmament  of  torches,  such  roaring  whirl- 
winds of  welcome,  such  booming  of  bells  and  thimdering  of  cannon! 
It  was  as  if  the  world  was  come  to  an  end.  Everywhere  in  the 
glare  of  the  torches  one  saw  rank  upon  rank  of  upturned  white 
faces,  the  mouths  wide  open,  shouting,  and  the  imchecked  tears 
running  down ;  Joan  forged  her  slow  way  through  the  solid  masses, 
her  mailed  form  projecting  above  the  pavement  of  heads  like  a 
silver  statue.  The  people  about  her  struggled  along,  gazing  up  at 
her  through  their  tears  with  the  rapt  look  of  men  and  women 
who  believe  they  are  seeing  one  who  is  divine;  and  always  her 
feet  were  being  kissed  by  grateful  folk,  and  such  as  failed  of  that 
privilege  touched  her  horse  and  then  kissed  their  fingers. 

This  was  the  29th  of  April.  Nine  days  later, 
May  8,  1429,  after  some  fierce  fighting  during  which 


280        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Joan  was  severely  wounded,  the  besiegers  were  scat- 
tered, Orleans  was  free.     Mark  Twain  writes: 

No  other  girl  in  all  history  has  ever  reached  such  a  svumnit  of 
glory  as  Joan  of  Arc  reached  that  day.  .  .  .  Orleans  will  never 
forget  the  8th  of  May,  nor  ever  fail  to  celebrate  it.  It  is  Joan 
of  Arc's  day — ^and  holy. 

Two  days.  May  7th  and  8th,  are  given  each  year 
to  the  celebration,  and  Orleans  in  other  ways  has 
honored  the  memory  of  her  deliverer.  A  wide  street 
bears  her  name,  and  there  are  noble  statues,  and  a 
museum,  and  holy  church  offerings.  The  Boucher 
home  which  sheltered  Joan  during  her  sojourn  in 
Orleans  has  been  preserved;  at  least  a  house  is  still 
shown  as  the  Boucher  house,  though  how  much  of 
the  original  structure  remains  no  one  at  this  day 
seems  willing  to  decide. 

We  drove  there  first,  for  it  is  the  only  spot  in 
Orleans  that  can  claim  even  a  possibility  of  having 
known  Joan's  actual  impress.  It  is  a  house  of  the 
old  cross-timber  and  brick  architecture,  and  if  these 
are  not  the  veritable  walls  that  Joan  saw  they  must 
at  least  bear  a  close  resemblance  to  those  of  the  house 
of  Jacques  Boucher,  treasurer  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans, 
where  Joan  was  made  welcome.  The  interior  is  less 
convincing.  It  is  ecclesiastical,  and  there  is  an  air 
of  general  newness  and  reconstruction  about  it  that 
suggests  nothing  of  that  long-ago  occupancy.  It 
was  rather  painful  to  linger,  and  we  were  inclined 
now  to  hesitate  at  the  thought  of  visiting  the  ancient 
home  of  Agnes  Sorel,  where  the  Joan  of  Arc  Museum 
is  located. 


ORLEANS  281 

It  would  have  been  a  mistake  not  to  do  so,  how- 
ever. It  is  only  a  few  doors  away  on  the  same  street, 
rue  du  Tabour,  and  it  is  a  fine  old  mansion,  genuinely 
old,  and  fairly  overflowing  with  objects  of  every  con- 
ceivable sort  relating  to  Joan  of  Arc.  Books,  stat- 
uary, paintings,  armor,  banners,  offerings,  coins, 
medals,  ornaments,  engravings,  letters — thousands 
upon  thousands  of  articles  gathered  there  in  the 
Maid's  memory.  I  think  there  is  not  one  of  them 
that  her  hand  ever  touched,  or  that  she  ever  saw,  but 
in  their  entirety  they  convey,  as  nothing  else  could, 
the  reverence  that  Joan's  memory  has  inspired  during 
the  centuries  that  have  gone  since  her  presence  made 
this  sacred  groimd.  Until  the  revolution  Orleans 
preserved  Joan's  banner,  some  of  her  clothing,  and 
other  genuine  relics;  but  then  the  mob  burned  them, 
probably  because  Joan  deUvered  France  to  royalty. 
One  finds  it  rather  easy  to  forgive  the  revolutionary 
mob  almost  anything — certainly  anjrthing  more  easily 
than  such  insane  vandalism.  We  were  shown  an 
ancient  copy  of  the  banner,  still  borne,  I  believe,  in 
the  annual  festivals.  Baedeker  speaks  of  arms  and 
armor  worn  at  the  siege  of  Orleans,  but  the  guardian 
of  the  place  was  not  willing  to  guarantee  their  genuine- 
ness. I  wish  he  had  not  thought  it  necessary  to  be 
so  honest.  He  did  show  us  a  photograph  of  Joan's 
signature,  the  original  of  which  belongs  to  one  of 
her  collateral  descendants.  She  wrote  it  "Jehanne," 
and  her  pen  must  have  been  guided  by  her  secretary, 
Louis  de  Conte,  for  Joan  could  neither  read  nor  write. 

We  drove  to  the  Place  Martroi  to  see  the  large 
equestrienne  statue  of  Joan  by  Foyatier,  with  reliefs 


282         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

by  Vital  Dubray.  It  is  very  imposing,  and  the 
reliefs  showing  the  great  moments  in  Joan's  career 
are  really  fine.  We  did  not  care  to  hunt  for  other 
memorials.  It  was  enough  to  drive  about  the  city 
trying  to  pick  out  a  house  here  and  there  that  looked 
as  if  it  might  have  been  standing  five  hundred  years, 
but  if  there  were  any  of  that  age — any  that  had  looked 
upon  the  wild  joy  of  Joan's  entrance  and  upon  her 
triumphal  departure,  they  were  very  few  indeed. 


Chapter  XXIX 

FONTAINEBLEAU 

T  X  rE  turned  north  now,  toward  Fontainebleau, 
'  '  which  we  had  touched  a  month  earlier  on  the 
way  to  Paris.  It  is  a  grand  straight  road  from 
Orleans  to  Fontainebleau,  and  it  passes  through 
Pithiviers,  which  did  not  look  especially  interesting, 
though  we  discovered  when  it  was  too  late  that  it 
is  noted  for  its  almond  cakes  and  lark  pies.  I  wanted 
to  go  back  then,  but  the  majority  was  against  it. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  entered  for  the  second 
time  the  majestic  forest  of  Fontainebleau  and  by  and 
by  came  to  the  palace  and  the  Httle  town,  and  to  a 
pretty  hotel  on  a  side  street  that  was  really  a  village 
inn  for  comfort  and  welcome.  There  was  still  plenty 
of  daylight,  mellow,  waning  dayUght,  and  the  palace 
was  not  far  away.  We  would  not  wait  for  it  until 
morning. 

I  think  we  most  enjoy  seeing  palaces  about  the 
closing  hours.  There  are  seldom  any  other  visitors 
then,  and  the  waning  afternoon  sunlight  in  the  vacant 
rooms  mellows  their  garish  emptiness,  and  seems 
somehow  to  bring  nearer  the  rich  pageant  of  life  and 
love  and  death  that  flowed  by  there  so  long  and  then 
one  day  came  to  an  end,  and  now  it  is  not  passing 
any  more. 


284         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

It  was  really  closing  time  when  we  arrived  at  the 
palace,  but  the  custodian  was  lenient  and  for  an  hour 
we  wandered  through  gorgeous  galleries,  and  salons, 
and  suites  of  private  apartments  where  queens  and 
kings  lived  gladly,  loved  madly,  died  sadly,  for  about 
four  hundred  years.  Francis  I  built  Fontainebleau, 
on  the  site  of  a  mediaeval  castle.  He  was  a  himter, 
and  the  forests  of  Fontainebleau,  like  those  of  Cham- 
bord,  were  always  famous  hunting  grounds.  Louis 
XIII,  who  was  bom  in  Fontainebleau,  built  the  grand 
entrance  staircase,  from  which  two  himdred  years  later 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  would  bid  good-by  to  his  gen- 
erals before  starting  for  Elba.  Other  kings  have 
added  to  the  place  and  embellished  it;  the  last  being 
Napoleon  III,  who  built  for  Eugenie  the  Bijou  theater 
across  the  court. 

It  may  have  been  our  mood,  it  may  have  been  the 
tranquil  evening  light,  it  may  have  been  reality  that 
Fontainebleau  was  more  friendly,  more  alive,  more 
a  place  for  Hving  men  and  women  to  inhabit  than 
any  other  palace  we  have  seen.  It  was  hard  to 
imagine  Versailles  as  having  ever  been  a  home  for 
anybody.  At  Fontainebleau  I  felt  that  we  were 
intruding — that  Madame  de  Maintenon,  Marie 
Antoinette,  Marie  Louise,  or  Eugenie  might  enter 
at  any  moment  and  find  us  there.  Perhaps  it  was 
in  the  apartments  of  Marie  Antoinette  that  one  felt 
this  most.  There  is  a  sort  of  personality  in  the 
gorgeousness  of  her  bedchamber  that  has  to  do, 
likely  enough,  with  the  memory  of  her  tragic  end, 
but  certainly  it  is  there.  The  gilded  ceiling  sings 
of  her;    the  satin  hangings — a  marriage  gift  from 


FONTAINEBLEAU  285 

the  city  of  Lyons — breathe  of  her;  even  the  iron 
window-fastenings  are  not  without  personal  utter- 
ance, for  they  were  wrought  by  the  skillful  hands  of 
the  king  himself,  out  of  his  love  for  her. 

The  apartments  of  the  first  Napoleon  and  Marie 
Louise  tell  something,  too,  but  the  story  seems  less 
intimate.  Yet  the  table  is  there  on  which  Napoleon 
signed  his  abdication  while  an  escort  waited  to  take 
him  to  Elba. 

For  size  and  magnificence  the  library  is  the  most 
impressive  room  in  Fontainebleau.  It  is  lofty  and 
splendid,  and  it  is  two  himdred  and  sixty -four  feet  long. 
It  is  called  the  gallery  of  Diana,  after  Diana  of 
Poitiers,  who  for  a  lady  of  tenuous  moral  fiber  seems 
to  have  inspired  some  pretty  substantial  memories. 
The  ballroom,  the  finest  in  Europe,  also  belongs  to 
Diana,  by  special  dedication  of  Henry  II,  who  deco- 
rated it  magnificently  to  suit  Diana's  charms. 
Napoleon  III  gave  great  hunting  banquets  there. 
Since  then  it  has  been  always  empty,  except  for 
visitors. 

The  custodian  took  us  through  a  suite  of  rooms 
called  the  "Apartments  of  the  White  Queens," 
because  once  they  were  restored  for  the  widows  of 
French  kings,  who  usually  dressed  in  white.  Napoleon 
used  the  rooms  for  another  purpose.  He  invited 
Pope  Pius  VII  to  Fontainebleau  to  sanction  his  divorce 
from  Josephine,  and  when  the  pope  declined,  Napoleon 
prolonged  the  pope's  visit  for  eighteen  months,  se- 
cluding him  in  this  luxurious  place,  to  give  him  a 
chance  to  modify  his  views.  They  visited  together 
a  good  deal,  and  their  interviews  were  not  always 


286         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

calm.  Napoleon  also  wanted  the  pope  to  sign  away 
the  states  of  the  Church,  and  once  when  they  were 
discussing  the  matter  rather  earnestly  the  emperor 
boxed  the  pope's  ears.  He  had  a  convincing  way 
in  those  days.  I  wonder  if  later,  standing  on  the 
St.  Helena  headland,  he  ever  recalled  that  incident. 
If  he  did,  I  dare  say  it  made  him  smile. 

The  light  was  getting  dim  by  the  time  we  reached 
the  pretty  theater  which  Louis  Napoleon  built  for 
Eugenie.  It  is  a  very  choice  place,  and  we  were 
allowed  to  go  on  the  stage  and  behind  the  scenes 
and  up  in  the  galleries,  and  there  was  something  in 
the  dusky  vacancy  of  that  little  playhouse,  built  to 
amuse  the  last  empress  of  France,  that  affected  us 
almost  more  than  any  of  the  rest  of  the  palace,  though 
it  was  built  not  so  long  ago  and  its  owner  is  still 
alive.*  It  is  not  used,  the  custodian  told  us — has 
never  been  used  since  Eugenie  went  away. 

From  a  terrace  back  of  the  palace  we  looked  out 
on  a  pretty  lake  where  Eugenie's  son  used  to  sail  a 
miniature  full-rigged  ship — ^large  enough,  if  one 
could  judge  from  a  picture  we  saw,  to  have  held  the 
little  prince  himself.  There  was  still  sunlight  on  the 
treetops,  and  these  and  the  prince's  little  pavilion 
reflecting  in  the  tranquil  water  made  the  place  beauti- 
ful. But  the  little  vessel  was  not  there.  I  wished, 
as  we  watched,  that  it  might  come  sailing  by.  I 
wished  that  the  prince  had  never  been  exiled  and 
that  he  had  not  grown  up  and  gone  to  his  death  in 
a  South  African  jungle.  I  wished  that  he  might 
be  back  to  sail  his  ship  again,  and  that  Eugenie 

*  She  lived  six  years  longer,  djmig  in  1920. 


FONTAINEBLEAU  287 

might  have  her  theater  once  more,  and  that  Louis 
Napoleon's  himting  parties  might  still  assemble  in 
Diana's  painted  ballroom  and  fill  the  vacant  palace 
with  something  besides  mere  curiosity  and  vain 
imaginings. 


Chapter  XXX 


RHEIMS 


WE  had  meant  to  go  to  Barbizon,  but  we  got  lost 
in  the  forest  next  morning,  and  when  we  found 
ourselves  we  were  a  good  way  in  the  direction  of 
Melun,  so  concluded  to  keep  on,  consoling  ourselves 
with  the  thought  that  Barbizon  is  not  Barbizon  any- 
more, and  would  probably  be  a  disappointment, 
anyway.  We  kept  on  from  Melun,  also,  after  buy- 
ing some  limcheon  things,  and  all  day  traversed  that 
beautiful  rolling  district  which  Hes  east  of  Paris  and 
below  Rheims,  arriving  toward  evening  at  fipemay, 
the  Spamacum  of  antiquity  and  the  champagne 
center  of  to-day.  ^fipemay  was  ancient  once,  but 
it  is  all  new  now,  with  wide  streets  and  every  indica- 
tion of  business  progress.  We  had  no  need  to  linger 
there.    We  were  anxious  to  get  to  Rheims. 

There  had  been  heavy  rains  in  the  champagne 
district,  and  next  morning  the  gray  sky  and  close 
air  gave  promise  of  more.  The  roads  were  not  the 
best,  being  rather  slippery  and  uneven  from  the 
heavy  traffic  of  the  wine  carts.  But  the  vine-covered 
hills  between  ]6pemay  and  Rheims,  with  their  dark- 
green  matted  leafage,  seemed  to  us  as  richly  pro- 
ductive as  anything  in  France. 

We  were  still  in  the  hills  when  we  looked  down  on 
the  valley  of  the  Vesle  and  saw  a  city  outspread 


RHEIMS  289 

there,  and  in  its  center  the  architectural  and  eccle- 
siastical pride  of  the  worid,  the  cathedral  of  Rheims. 
Large  as  the  city  was,  that  great  central  ornament 
dwarfed  and  dominated  its  surroundings.  Thus 
Joan  of  Arc  had  seen  it  when  at  the  head  of  her 
victorious  army  she  conducted  the  king  to  Rheims 
for  his  coronation.  She  was  nearing  the  fulfillment 
of  her  assignment,  the  completion  of  the  great  labor 
laid  upon  her  by  the  voices  of  her  saints.  Mark 
Twain  tells  of  Joan's  approach  to  Rheims,  of  the 
tide  of  cheers  that  swept  her  ranks  at  the  vision  of 
the  distant  towers: 

And  as  for  Joan  of  Arc,  there  where  she  sat  her  horse,  gazing, 
clothed  all  in  white  armor,  dreamy,  beautiful,  and  in  her  face  a 
deep,  deep  joy,  a  joy  not  of  earth;  oh,  she  was  not  flesh,  she  was 
spiritual!  Her  sublime  mission  was  closing — closing  in  flawless 
triumph.  To-morrow  she  could  say,  "It  is  finished — let  me  go 
free." 

It  was  the  i6th  of  July  that  Joan  looked  down 
upon  Rheims,  and  now,  fotu  hundred  and  eighty- 
five  years  later,  it  was  again  July,  with  the  same 
summer  glory  on  the  woods,  the  same  green  and 
scarlet  in  the  poppied  fields,  the  same  fair  valley, 
the  same  stately  towers  rising  to  the  sky.  But  no 
one  can  ever  feel  what  Joan  felt,  can  ever  put  into 
words,  ever  so  faintly,  what  that  moment  and  that 
vision  meant  to  the  Domremy  shepherd  girl. 

Descending  the  plain,  we  entered  the  city,  crossed 
a  bridge,  and  made  oiu*  way  to  the  cathedral  square. 
Then  presently  we  were  at  the  doorway  where  Joan 
and  her  king  had  entered — the  portal  which  has 
been  called  the  most  beautiful  this  side  of  Paradise. 


290         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

How  little  we  dreamed  that  we  were  among  the 
last  to  look  upon  it  in  its  glory — that  disfigurement 
and  destruction  lay  only  a  few  weeks  ahead ! 

It  is  not  required  any  more  that  one  should  write 
descriptively  of  the  church  of  Rheims.  It  has  been 
done  so  thoroughly,  and  so  often,  by  those  so  highly 
qualified  for  the  undertaking,  that  such  supplemen- 
tary remarks  as  I  might  offer  would  hardly  rise  even 
to  the  dignity  of  an  impertinence.  Fergussen,  who 
must  have  been  an  authority,  for  the  guidebook 
quotes  him,  called  it,  "perhaps  the  most  beautiful 
structure  produced  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

Nothing  [he  says]  can  exceed  the  majesty  of  its  deeply  recessed 
portals,  the  beauty  of  the  rose  window  that  surmovints  them,  or 
the  elegance  of  the  gallery  that  completes  the  fagade  and  serves 
as  a  basement  to  the  Ught  and  graceful  towers  that  crown  the 
composition. 

The  cathedral  was  already  two  hundred  years  old 
when  Joan  arrived  in  1429.  But  it  must  have  looked 
quite  fresh  and  new  then,  for,  nearly  five  centuries 
later,  it  seemed  to  have  suffered  little.  Some  of  the 
five  hundred  and  thirty  statues  of  its  entrance  were 
weatherworn  and  scarred,  but  the  general  effect  was 
not  disturbed. 

Many  kings  had  preceded  Joan  and  her  sovereign 
through  the  sacred  entrance.  Long  before  the 
cathedral  was  built  French  sovereigns  had  come  to 
Rheims  for  their  coronation,  to  be  anointed  with 
some  drops  of  the  inexhaustible  oil  which  a  white 
dove  had  miraculously  brought  from  heaven  for  the 
baptism  of  Clovis.     That  had  been  nearly  a  thousand 


RHEIMS  291 

years  before,  but  in  Joan's  day  the  sacred  vessei 
and  its  holy  contents  were  still  preserved  in  the 
ancient  abbey  of  St.  Remi,  and  would  be  used  for 
the  anointing  of  her  king.  The  Archbishop  of 
Rheims  and  his  canons,  with  a  deputy  of  nobles,  had 
been  sent  for  the  awesome  relic,  after  the  nobles  had 
sworn  upon  their  Hves  to  restore  it  to  St.  Remi 
when  the  coronation  was  over.  The  abbot  himself, 
attended  by  this  splendid  escort,  brought  the  precious 
vessel,  and  the  crowd  fell  prostrate  and  prayed  while 
this  hoUest  of  objects,  for  it  had  been  made  in  heaven, 
passed  by.  We  are  told  that  the  abbot,  attended 
by  the  archbishop  and  those  others,  entered  the 
crowded  church,  followed  by  the  five  motmted 
knights,  who  rode  down  the  great  central  aisle,  clear 
to  the  choir,  and  then  at  a  signal  backed  their  pranc- 
ing steeds  all  the  distance  to  the  great  doors. 

It  was  a  mighty  assemblage  that  had  gathered  for 
the  crowning  of  Joan's  king.  France,  ovemm  by 
an  invader,  had  known  no  real  king  for  years — had, 
indeed,  well-nigh  surrendered  her  nationality.  Now 
the  saints  themselves  had  taken  up  their  cause,  and 
in  the  person  of  a  yoimg  girl  from  an  obscure 
village  had  given  victory  to  their  arms  and  brought 
redemption  to  their  throne.  .  No  wonder  the  vast 
church  was  packed  and  that  crowds  were  massed 
outside.  From  all  directions  had  come  pilgrims  to 
the  great  event — persons  of  every  rank,  among  them 
two  shepherds,  Joan's  aged  father  and  imcle,  who 
had  walked  from  Domremy,  one  himdred  and  twenty 
miles,  to  verify  with  their  own  eyes  what  their  ears 
could  not  credit. 


7f^         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Very  likely  the  cathedral  at  Rheims  has  never 
known  such  a  throng  since  that  day,  nor  heard  such 
a  mighty  shout  as  went  up  when  Joan  and  the  king, 
side  by  side,  and  followed  by  a  splendid  train,  appeared 
at  the  great  side  entrance  and  moved  slowly  to  the 
altar. 

I  think  there  must  have  fallen  a  deep  hush  then 
—a  petrified  stillness  that  lasted  through  the  long 
ceremonial,  while  every  eye  feasted  itself  upon  the 
young  girl  standing  there  at  the  king's  side,  holding 
her  victorious  standard  above  him — the  banner  that 
"had  borne  the  burden  and  had  earned  the  victory," 
as  she  would  one  day  testify  at  her  trial.  I  am  sure 
that  vast  throng  would  keep  silence,  scarcely  breath- 
ing, until  the  final  word  was  spoken  and  the  dauphin 
had  accepted  the  crown  and  placed  it  upon  his  head. 
But  then  we  may  hear  borne  faintly  down  the  cen- 
turies the  roar  of  renewed  shouting  that  told  to  those 
waiting  without  that  the  great  ceremony  was  ended, 
that  Charles  VII  of  France  had  been  anointed  king. 
In  the  Recollections  Mark  Twain  makes  the  Sieur 
de  Conte  say: 

What  a  crash  there  was!  All  about  us  cries  and  cheers,  and  the 
chanting  of  the  choir  and  the  groaning  of  the  organ;  and  outside 
the  clamoring  of  the  bells  and  the  booming  of  the  cannon. 

The  fantastic  dream,  the  incredible  dream,  the  impossible 
dream  of  the  peasant  child  stood  fulfilled. 

It  had  become  reality — perhaps  in  that  old  day  it 
even  seemed  reality — but  now,  after  five  hundred 
years,  it  has  become  once  more  a  dream — to-day 
our  dream — and   in   the   filmy  picture  we   see  the 


RHEIMS  29} 

shepherd  girl  on  her  knees,  saying  to  the  crowned 
king: 

"My  work  which  was  given  me  to  do  is  finished; 
give  me  your  peace  and  let  me  go  back  to  my  mother, 
who  is  poor  and  old  and  has  need  of  me.' 

But  the  king  raises  her  up  and  praises  her  and 
confers  upon  her  nobihty  and  titles,  and  asks  her 
to  name  a  reward  for  her  service,  and  in  the  old 
dream  we  hear  her  ask  favor  for  her  village — that 
Domremy,  "poor  and  hard  pressed  by  reason  of  the 
war,"  may  have  its  taxes  remitted. 

Nothing  for  herself — no  more  than  that,  and  in 
the  presence  of  all  the  great  assemblage  Charles  VII 
pronoimces  the  decree  that,  by  grace  of  Joan  of  Arc, 
Domremy  shall  be  free  from  taxes  forever. 

Here  within  these  walls  it  was  all  reaUty  five  hun- 
dred years  ago.  We  do  not  study  this  interior  to 
discover  special  art  values  or  to  distinguish  in  what 
manner  it  differs  from  others  we  have  seen.  For 
us  the  light  from  its  great  rose  window  and  upper 
arches  is  glorified  because  once  it  fell  upon  Joan  of 
Arc  in  that  supreme  moment  when  she  saw  her  labor 
finished  and  asked  only  that  she  might  return  to 
Domremy  and  her  flocks.  The  statuary  in  the 
niches  are  holy  because  they  looked  upon  that  scene, 
the  altar  paving  is  sanctified  because  it  felt  the  pres- 
sure of  her  feet. 

We  wandered  about  the  great  place,  but  we  came 
back  again  and  again  to  the  altar,  and,  looking  through 
the  railing,  dreamed  once  more  of  that  great  moment 
when  a  frail  shepherd  girl  began  anew  the  history 
of  France. 


294        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Back  of  the  altar  was  a  statue  of  Joan  unlike  any 
we  have  seen  elsewhere,  and  to  us  more  beautiful. 
It  was  not  Joan  with  her  banner  aloft,  her  eyes  upward. 
It  was  Joan  with  her  eyes  lowered,  looking  at  no 
outward  thing,  her  face  passive — the  saddest  face 
and  the  saddest  eyes  in  the  world.  It  was  Joan  the 
sacrifice — of  her  people  and  her  king. 


Chapter  XXXI 

ALONG  THE  MARNB 

TT  may  have  been  two  miles  out  of  Rheims  that  we 
^  met  the  flood.  There  had  been  a  heavy  shower 
as  we  entered  the  city,  but  presently  the  sun  broke 
out,  bright  and  hot,  too  bright  and  too  hot  for  per- 
manence. Now  suddenly  all  was  black  again,  there 
was  a  roar  of  thtmder,  and  then  such  an  opening  of 
the  water  gates  of  the  sky  as  would  have  disttu*bed 
Noah.  There  was  no  thought  of  driving  through 
such  a  torrent.  I  pulled  over  to  the  side  of  the  road, 
but  the  tall  high-trimmed  trees  afforded  no  protec- 
tion. Our  top  was  a  shelter,  but  not  a  complete  one 
— the  wind  drove  the  water  in,  and  in  a  moment  our 
imibrellas  were  sticking  out  in  every  direction,  and 
we  had  huddled  together  like  chickens.  The  water 
seemed  to  fall  solidly.  The  world  was  blotted  out. 
I  had  the  feeling  at  moments  that  we  were  being 
swept  down  some  great  submarine  current. 

I  don't  know  how  long  the  inimdation  lasted.  It 
may  have  been  five  minutes — it  may  have  been  thirty. 
Then  suddenly  it  stopped — it  was  over — the  stin 
was  out  I 

There  was  then  no  mud  in  France — not  in  the  high- 
roads— and  a  moment  or  two  later  we  had  revived, 
our  engine  was  going,  and  we  were  gliding  between 

fair  fields — fresh  shining  fields  where  scarlet  poppy 
20 


296         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

patches  were  as  pools  of  blood.  There  is  no  lovelier 
land  than  the  Mame  district,  from  Rheims  to  Chalons 
and  to  Vitry-le-Frangois.  It  had  often  been  a  war 
district — a  battle  groirnd,  fought  over  time  and  again 
since  the  ancient  allies  defeated  Attila  and  his  Huns 
there,  checking  the  purpose  of  the  "Scourge  of  God," 
as  he  styled  himself,  to  foimd  a  new  dynasty  upon 
the  wreck  of  Rome.  It  could  never  be  a  battle 
ground  again,  we  thought — the  great  nations  were 
too  advanced  for  war.  Ah  me!  Within  two  months 
from  that  day  men  were  lying  dead  across  that  very 
road,  shells  were  tearing  at  the  lovely  fields,  and 
another  stain  had  mingled  with  the  trampled  poppies. 

Chalons-sur-Mame,  like  Rheims  and  fipemay,  is 
a  champagne  center  and  prosperous.  There  were 
some  churches  there,  but  they  did  not  seem  of  great 
importance.  We  stopped  for  water  at  Vitry-le- 
Francois,  a  hot,  iminteresting-looking  place,  though 
it  had  played  a  part  in  much  history,  and  would 
presently  play  a  part  in  much  more.  It  was  always 
an  outpost  against  vandal  incursions  from  the  north, 
and  Francis  I  rebuilt  and  strengthened  it. 

At  Vitry  we  left  the  Mame  and  kept  the  wide  road 
eastward,  for  we  were  boimd  now  for  the  Vosges,  for 
Domremy  on  the  Meuse,  Joan's  starting  place. 
The  Sim  burned  again,  the  road  got  hot,  and  sud- 
denly during  the  afternoon  one  of  our  tires  went 
off  like  a  gim. 

One  of  our  old  shoes  had  blown  out  at  the  rim, 
and  there  was  a  doubtfid  look  about  the  others. 
Narcissa  and  I  labored  in  the  hot  sun — for  there 
was  no  shade  from  those  slim  roadside  poplars — 


ALONG  THE  MARNE  297 

and  with  inside  patches  and  outside  patches  man- 
aged to  get  in  traveling  order  again,  though  per- 
sonally we  were  pretty  limp  by  the  time  we  were 
ready  to  move,  and  a  good  deal  disheartened.  The 
prospect  of  reaching  Vevey,  our  base  of  suppUes, 
without  laying  up  somewhere  to  order  new  tires  was 
not  bright,  and  it  became  even  less  so  that  evening, 
when  in  front  of  the  hotel  at  St.  Dizier  another  tire 
pushed  out  at  the  rim,  and  in  the  gathering  dusk, 
surroimded  by  an  audience,  I  had  to  make  further 
repairs  before  I  could  get  into  the  garage. 

Early  next  morning  I  gave  those  tires  all  a  pretty 
general  overhauling.  I  put  in  blow-out  patches 
wherever  there  seemed  to  be  a  weak  place  and  doubled 
them  at  the  broken  spots.  By  the  time  I  got  done 
we  were  carrying  in  our  tires  all  the  extra  rubber 
and  leather  and  general  aid-to-the-injured  stuff  that 
had  formerly  been  under  the  back  seat,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  make  a  trip  around  to  the  supply  garages 
for  more.  Fortunately  the  weather  had  changed 
overnight,  and  it  was  cool.  Old  tires  and  even  new 
ones  hold  better  on  cool  roads. 

It  turned  still  cooler  as  we  proceeded — it  became 
chilly — for  the  Fourth  of  July  it  was  winterish.  At 
Chalons  we  had  expended  three  whole  francs  for  a 
bottle  of  champagne  for  celebration  purposes,  and 
when  we  made  our  luncheon  camp  in  a  sheltered 
cover  of  a  pretty  meadow  where  there  was  a  clear, 
racing  brook,  we  were  too  cold  to  sit  down,  and  drank 
standing  a  toast  to  our  national  independence,  and 
would  have  liked  more  of  that  delicious  liquid  warmth, 
regardless  of  cost.    There  could  hardly  have  been 


298         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

a  more  beautiful  spot  than  that,  but  I  do  not  remem- 
ber any  place  where  we  were  less  inclined  to  linger. 

Yet  how  quickly  weather  can  change.  Within 
an  hour  it  was  warm  again — ^not  hot,  but  mildly 
pleasant,  even  delightful. 


Chapter  XXXII 

DOMREMY 

\\7^  ^ere  well  down  in  the  Vosges  now  and  begin- 
^  '  ning  to  inquire  for  Domremy.  How  strange 
it  seemed  to  be  actually  making  inquiries  for  a  place 
that  always  before  had  been  just  a  part  of  an  old 
legend — a  half-mythical  story  of  a  little  girl  who, 
tending  her  sheep,  had  heard  the  voices  of  angels. 
One  had  the  feeling  that  there  could  never  really  be 
such  a  place  at  all,  that,  even  had  it  once  existed,  it 
must  have  vanished  long  ago;  that  to  ask  the  way 
to  it  now  would  be  like  those  who  in  some  old  fairy 
tale  come  back  after  ages  of  enchantment  and  inquire 
for  places  and  people  long  forgotten.  Domremy !  No, 
it  was  not  possible.  We  should  meet  puzzled,  blank 
looks,  pitying  smiles,  in  answer  to  our  queries.  We 
should  never  find  one  able  to  point  a  way  and  say, 
"That  is  the  road  to  Domremy."  One  could  as 
easily  say  "the  road  to  Camelot." 

Yet  there  came  a  time  when  we  must  ask.  We 
had  been  passing  through  miles  of  wonderful  forest, 
with  regularly  cut  roads  leading  away  at  intervals, 
suggesting  a  vast  preserved  estate,  when  we  came 
out  to  an  open  hill  land,  evidently  a  grazing  country, 
with  dividing  roads  and  no  definite  markings.  So 
we  stopped  a  humble-looking  old  man  and  hesitat- 
ingly,   rather   falteringly,    asked   him   the   road   to 


30O         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Domremy.  He  regarded  us  a  moment,  then  said 
very  gently,  pointing,  "It  is  down  there  just  a  Uttle 
way." 

So  we  were  near — quite  near — ^perhaps  even  now 
passing  a  spot  where  Joan  had  tended  her  sheep. 
Our  informant  turned  to  watch  us  pass.  He  knew 
why  we  were  going  to  Domremy.  He  could  have 
been  a  descendant  of  those  who  had  played  with  Joan. 

Even  now  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  Domremy 
would  be  just  an  old  village,  such  a  village  as  Joan 
had  known,  where  humble  folk  led  humble  Hves 
tending  their  flocks  and  small  acres.  Very  likely 
it  had  become  a  tourist  resort — a  mere  locality,  with 
a  hotel.  It  was  only  when  we  were  actually  in  the 
streets  of  a  decaying,  time-beaten  httle  hamlet  and 
were  told  that  this  was  indeed  Domremy,  the  home 
of  Joan  of  Arc,  that  we  awoke  to  the  actuality  of  the 
place  and  to  the  realization  that  in  character  at 
least  it  had  not  greatly  changed. 

We  drove  to  the  church — an  ancient,  weatherworn 
little  edifice.  The  invaders  destroyed  it  the  same 
year  that  Joan  set  out  on  her  march,  but  when  Joan 
had  given  safety  to  France  the  fragments  were 
gathered  and  rebuilt,  so  if  it  is  not  in  its  entirety 
the  identical  chapel  where  Joan  worshiped,  it  con- 
tains, at  least,  portions  of  the  original  structure  and 
stands  upon  the  same  ground.  In  front  of  the 
church  is  a  bronze  statue  of  the  Maid,  and  above 
the  entrance  a  painting  of  Joan  listening  to  the 
voices.  But  these  are  modem.  Inside  are  more 
precious  things. 

It  is  a  plain,  humble  interior,  rather  too  fresh  and 


DOMREMY  301 

new  looking  for  its  antiquity,  perhaps  because  of  the 
whitened  walls.  But  near  the  altar  there  is  an  object 
that  does  not  disappoint.  It  is  an  ancient  baptismal 
font — the  original  font  of  the  Httle  ruined  chapel — 
the  vessel  in  which  Joan  of  Arc  was  baptized.  I 
think  there  can  be  no  question  of  its  authenticity. 
It  would  be  a  holy  object  to  the  people  of  Domremy; 
to  them  Joan  was  already  a  saint  at  the  time  of 
her  death,  and  any  object  that  had  served  her  was 
sacred.  The  relic  dug  from  the  ruined  chapel  would 
be  faithfully  guarded,  and  there  would  be  many 
still  alive  to  identify  it  when  the  church's  restoration 
was  complete  and  the  ancient  vessel  set  in  place. 

It  seems  a  marvelous  thing  to  be  able  to  look  upon 
an  object  that  may  be  regarded  as  the  ceremonial 
starting  point  of  a  grace  that  was  to  redeem  a  nation. 
Surely,  if  ever  angels  stood  by  to  observe  the  rites 
of  men  they  gathered  with  those  humble  shepherd 
folk  about  the  little  basin  where  a  tiny  soul  was 
being  consecrated  to  their  special  service. 

In  the  church  also  is  the  headstone  from  the  grave 
of  Joan's  godmother,  with  an  ancient  inscription 
which  one  may  study  out,  and  travel  back  a  long  way. 
Near  it  is  another  object — one  that  ranks  in  honor 
with  the  baptismal  font — the  statuette  of  St.  Mar- 
guerite, before  which  Joan  prayed.  Like  the  font 
this  would  be  a  holy  thing,  even  in  Joan's  lifetime, 
and  would  be  preserved  and  handed  down.  To  me 
it  seems  almost  too  precious  to  remain  in  that  ancient, 
perishing  church.  It  is  something  that  Joan  of  Arc 
not  only  saw  and  touched,  but  to  which  she  gave 
spiritual  adoration.     To  me  it  seems  the  most  precious, 


302        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

the  most  sacred  relic  in  France.  The  old  church 
appears  so  poor  a  protection  for  it.  Yet  I  should  be 
sorry  to  see  it  taken  elsewhere. 

Joan's  house  is  only  a  step  away — a  remnant  of  a 
house,  for,  though  it  was  not  demolished  like  the 
church,  it  has  suffered  from  alterations,  and  portions 
of  it  were  destroyed.  Whatever  remained  at  the 
time  of  Louis  XI  would  seem  to  have  been  preserved 
about  as  it  was  then,  though  of  course  restored;  the 
royal  arms  of  France,  with  those  accorded  by  Charles 
VII  to  Joan  and  her  fanuly,  were  combined  orna- 
mentally above  the  door  with  the  date,  148 1,  and  the 
inscription,  in  old  French,  "Fm  labeur;  vive  le  roy 
Loys."  The  son  of  Joan's  king  must  have  felt  that 
it  was  proper  to  preserve  the  birthplace  of  the  girl 
who  had  saved  his  throne. 

Doubtless  the  main  walls  of  the  old  house  of  Jacques 
d'Arc  are  the  same  that  Joan  knew.  Joan's  mother 
lived  there  imtil  1438,  and  it  was  less  than  fifty  years 
later  that  Louis  XI  gave  orders  for  the  restoration. 
The  old  walls  were  solidly  built.  It  is  not  likely 
that  they  could  have  fallen  to  complete  ruin  in  that 
time.     The  rest  is  mainly  new. 

What  the  inside  of  the  old  house  was  in  Joan's 
time  we  can  only  imagine.  The  entrance  room  was 
the  general  room,  I  suppose,  and  it  was  here,  we  are 
told,  that  Joan  was  bom.  Mark  Twain  has  imagined 
a  scene  in  the  house  of  Jacques  d'Arc  where  a  himgry 
straggler  comes  one  night  and  knocks  at  the  door 
and  is  admitted  to  the  firelit  room.  He  tells  us  how 
Joan  gave  the  wanderer  her  porridge — against  her 
father's  argument,  for  those  were  times  of  sore  stress 


DOMREMY  303 

— and  how  the  stranger  rewarded  them  all  with  the 
great  Song  of  Roland.  The  general  room  would  be 
the  setting  of  that  scene. 

Behind  it  is  a  Httle  dimgeon-like  apartment  which 
is  shown  as  Joan's  chamber.  The  walls  and  ceiling 
of  this  poor  place  are  very  old ;  possibly  they  are  of 
Joan's  time — ^no  one  can  really  say.  In  one  wall 
there  is  a  recess,  now  protected  by  a  heavy  wire 
screen,  which  means  that  Joan  set  up  her  shrine  there, 
the  St.  Marguerite  and  her  other  holy  things.  She 
would  pray  to  them  night  and  morning,  but  oftener 
I  think  she  would  leave  this  dim  prison  for  the  con- 
solation of  the  little  church  across  the  way. 

The  whole  house  is  a  kind  of  museum  now,  and  the 
upper  floor  is  especially  fitted  with  cases  for  books 
and  souvenirs. 

In  the  grotmds  there  is  a  fine  statue  by  Merci6, 
and  the  whole  place  is  leafy  and  beautiful.  It  is 
not  easy,  however,  to  imagine  there  the  presence  of 
Joan.  That  is  easier  in  the  crooked  streets  of  the 
village,  and  still  easier  along  the  river  and  the  fields. 
The  Fairy  Tree — VArbre  F^e  de  Bourlement — where 
Joan  and  her  comrades  played,  and  where  later  she 
heard  the  voices,  is  long  since  gone,  and  the  spot  is 
marked  by  a  church  which  we  cared  to  view  only 
from  a  distance.  It  seems  too  bad  that  any  church 
should  be  there,  and  especially  that  one.  The  spot 
itself,  marked  by  a  mere  tablet,  or  another  tree, 
would  be  enough. 

It  was  in  January,  1429,  that  Joan  and  her  imcle 
Laxart  left  Domremy  for  Vaucouleurs  to  ask  the 
governor  to  give  her  a  military  escort  to  the  iin- 


304        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

crowned  king  at  Chinon.  She  never  came  back. 
Less  than  half  a  year  later  she  had  raised  the  siege 
at  Orleans,  fought  Patay,  and  conducted  the  king 
to  his  coronation  at  Rheims.  She  would  have 
returned  then,  but  the  king  was  afraid  to  let  her  go. 
Neither  did  he  have  the  courage  to  follow  or  support 
her  brilliant  leadership.  He  was  weak  and  paltry. 
When,  as  the  result  of  his  dalliance,  she  was  captured 
at  Compi^gne,  he  allowed  her  to  suffer  a  year  of 
wretched  imprisonment,  making  no  attempt  at  rescue 
or  ransom,  and  in  the  end  to  be  burned  at  Rouen  as 
a  witch. 

I  have  read  in  an  old  French  book  an  attempt  to 
excuse  the  king,  to  show  that  he  did  not  have  armed 
force  enough  to  go  to  Joan's  rescue,  but  I  failed  to 
find  there  any  evidence  that  he  even  contemplated 
such  an  attempt.  I  do  find  that  when  Joan  had  been 
dead  thirteen  years  and  France,  strong  and  imited, 
was  safe  for  excursions,  he  made  a  trip  to  LxDrraine, 
accompanied  by  Dimois,  Robert  de  Baudricourt, 
and  others  of  Joan's  favorite  generals.  They  visited 
Domremy,  and  Baudricourt  pointed  out  to  the  king 
that  there  seemed  to  be  a  sadness  in  the  landscape. 
It  is  said  that  this  visit  caused  Charles  to  hasten  the 
process  of  Joan's  rehabilitation — ^to  reverse  the  ver- 
dict of  heresy  and  idolatry  and  witchcraft  under 
which  she  had  died.  But  as  the  new  hearing  did 
not  begin  until  eleven  years  after  the  king's  visit  to 
Domremy,  nearly  twenty-five  years  after  Joan's 
martyrdom,  the  word  "hasten"  does  not  seem  to  ap- 
ply. If  Charles  VII  finally  bestirred  himself  in  that 
process,  it  was  rather  to  show  before  he  died  that 


DOMREMY  30s 

he  held  his  crown  not  by  the  favor  of  Satan  but 
of  saints. 

The  memory  of  Joan  of  Arc's  fate  must  always  be 
a  bitter  one  to  France,  and  the  generations  have 
never  ceased  to  make  atonement.  Her  martyrdom 
has  seemed  so  unnecessary — such  a  reproach  upon 
the  nation  she  saved. 

Yet  perhaps  it  was  necessary.  Joan  in  half  a  year 
had  accomplished  what  the  French  armies,  without 
her,  had  been  unable  to  do  in  three  quarters  of  a 
century — she  had  crippled  the  English  power  in 
France.  Her  work  was  not  finished — though  de- 
feated, the  enemy  still  remained  on  French  soil,  and 
unless  relentlessly  assailed  would  recover.  After 
the  coronation  at  Rheims  there  would  seem  to  have 
fallen,  even  upon  Joan's  loyal  followers,  a  reaction, 
a  period  of  indifference  and  indolence.  Joan's  fear- 
ful death  at  the  stake  awoke  her  people  as  nothing 
else  could  have  done. 

By  a  lonely  roadside  far  up  in  Normandy  we 
passed,  one  day,  a  small  stone  column  which  recorded 
how  upon  this  spot  was  delivered  the  battle  of  For- 
migny,  April  15th,  in  the  year  1450,  under  the  reign 
of  Charles  VII,  and  how  the  French  were  victorious 
and  the  English  armies  forced  to  abandon  Norman 
soil.  Joan  of  Arc  had  been  dead  nineteen  years  when 
that  final  battle  was  fought,  but  it  was  her  spirit 
that  gave  the  victory. 


Chapter  XXXIII 

STRASSBURG  AND  THE  BLACK  FOREST 

/^UR  tires  were  distressingly  bad  now.  I  had  to 
^-^  do  some  quick  repairing  at  Domremy,  also  be- 
tween Domremy  and  Vaucouleurs,  where  we  spent 
the  night.  Then  next  morning  at  Vaucouleurs,  in  an 
unfrequented  back  street  behind  our  ancient  inn,  I 
established  a  general  overhauling  plant,  and  patched 
and  relined  and  trepanned  during  almost  an  entire 
forenoon,  while  the  rest  of  the  family  scoured  the 
town  for  the  materials.  We  put  in  most  of  our  time 
at  Vaucouleurs  in  this  way.  However,  there  was 
really  Httle  to  see  in  the  old  town.  Our  inn  was  as 
ancient  as  anything,  and  our  landlord  assured  us 
that  Joan's  knights  probably  stopped  there,  and 
even  Uncle  Laxart,  but  he  could  not  produce  his 
register  to  prove  it.  There  are  the  remains  of  the 
chateau  where  Joan  is  said  to  have  met  the  governor, 
and  a  monument  to  the  Maid's  memory  has  been 
begun,  but  remains  imfinished  through  lack  of  funds. 
The  real  interest  in  Vaucouleurs,  to-day,  is  that  it 
was  the  starting  point  of  Joan's  great  march.  One 
could  reflect  upon  that  and  repair  tires  simultaneously. 
We  got  away  in  time  to  have  limcheon  in  the 
beautiful  country  below  Toul,  and  then  kept  on  to 
Nancy.  At  both  places  there  seemed  to  be  nothing 
but  soldiers  and  barracks,  and  one  did  not  have  to 


STRASSBURG  AND  THE  BLACK  FOREST     307 

get  out  of  the  car  to  see  those.  Not  that  Nancy  is 
not  a  fine  big  town,  but  its  cathedral  and  its  Arch  of 
Triumph  are  both  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Such 
things  seemed  rather  raw  and  new,  while  museums 
did  not  interest  us  any  more. 

Lorraine  itself  is  beautiful.  It  seemed  especially 
fair  where  we  crossed  the  line  into  Germany,  and  we 
did  not  wonder  that  France  could  not  forget  her  loss 
of  that  fertile  land.  There  was  no  difficulty  at  the 
customs.  We  were  pohtely  O.  K.'d  by  the  French 
officials  and  courteously  passed  by  the  Germans, 
with  no  examination  beyond  our  tripiyques.  Then 
another  stretch  of  fine  road  and  fair  fields,  and  we 
were  in  a  village  of  cobbled  streets  and  soldiers — 
German  soldiers — and  were  told  that  it  was  Dieuze; 
also  that  there  was  an  inn — a  very  good  inn — a  Httle 
way  down  the  street.  So  there  was — an  inn  where 
they  spoke  French  and  German  and  even  a  variety 
of  English,  and  had  plenty  of  good  food  and  good 
beds  for  a  very  modest  sum  indeed.  Dieuze  was 
soon  to  become  a  war  town,  but  beyond  a  few  soldiers 
— nothing  imusual — we  saw  no  signs  of  it  that  first 
week  in  July. 

Strassburg  was  our  next  stopping  place.  We  put 
in  a  day  there  wandering  about  its  fine  streets,  look- 
ing at  its  picturesque  old  houses,  its  royal  palace, 
and  its  cathedral.  I  do  not  think  we  cared  for  the 
cathedral  as  we  did  for  those  of  France.  It  is  very 
old  and  very  wonderful,  and  exhibits  every  form  of 
architecture  that  has  been  employed  in  church  build- 
ing for  nearly  a  thousand  years;  but  in  spite  of  its 
great  size,  its  imposing  height,  its  rich  fagade,  there 


3o8         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

was  something  repellant  about  it  all,  and  particularly 
in  its  great  bare  interior.  It  seemed  to  lack  a  cer- 
tain light  of  romance,  of  poetry,  of  spiritual  sympathy 
that  belongs  to  every  French  church  of  whatever  size. 

And  we  were  disappointed  in  the  wonderful  clock. 
It  was  very  wonderful,  no  doubt,  but  we  had  ex- 
pected too  much.  We  waited  for  an  hour  for  the 
great  midday  exhibition,  and  collected  with  a  jam  of 
other  visitors  in  the  Httle  clock  chapel,  expecting  all 
the  things  to  happen  that  we  had  dreamed  of  since 
childhood.  They  all  did  happen,  too,  but  they  came 
so  deliberately  and  with  so  little  liveliness  of  demon- 
stration that  one  had  to  watch  pretty  closely  some- 
times to  know  that  anything  was  happening  at  all. 
I  think  I,  for  one,  had  expected  that  the  saints  and 
apostles,  and  the  months  and  seasons,  would  all 
come  out  and  do  a  grand  walk  around  to  Hvely 
music.  As  for  the  rooster  that  crows,  he  does  not 
crow  as  well  as  Narcissa,  who  has  the  gift  of  imita- 
tion and  could  have  astonished  that  crowd  if  she 
had  let  me  persuade  her  to  try. 

There  have  been  several  of  these  Strassburg  clocks. 
There  was  one  of  them  in  the  cathedral  as  far  back 
as  1352.  It  ran  for  about  two  centuries,  when  another, 
finished  in  1574,  took  its  place.  The  mechanism 
of  the  new  clock  was  worn  out  in  another  two  cen- 
turies, but  its  framework  forms  a  portion  of  the 
great  clock  of  to-day,  which  dates  from  1840.  It 
does  a  number  of  very  wonderful  things,  but  in  this 
age  of  contrivance,  when  men  have  made  mechanical 
marvels  past  all  belief,  the  wonder  of  the  Strassburg 
clock  is  largely  traditional.     The  rooster  that  crows 


^ 


*.^i.  #, ,.  >pi;|C; 
'■w       *  /fry  /-    •■'••  .«<  JflMb.  '     '•  J    .'■V    '• 


*  >=r-^'^ 


l^P- nii-  \ 


.^jai-iv*-'* 


fjiHT.lU!;!""' 


STRASSHI'Kii,  SHOVVIM.  Till:  (.AI  111  I>H  M. 


STRASSBURG  AND  THE  BLACK  FOREST     309 

and  flaps  his  wings  is  really  the  chief  feature,  for  it 
is  the  rcx)ster  of  the  original  clock,  and  thus  has 
daily  amused  the  generations  for  five  hundred  years. 

Gutenberg,  the  first  printer,  began  his  earliest 
experiments  in  a  cloister  outside  the  Strassburg 
gates,  and  there  is  a  small  pubUc  square  named  for 
him,  and  in  the  center  of  it  a  fine  statue  with  relief 
groups  of  the  great  printers  of  all  nations.  Of  course 
Franklin  was  there  and  some  other  Americans.  It 
gave  us  a  sort  of  proprietary  interest  in  that  neigh- 
borhood, and  a  kindly  feeling  for  the  city  in 
general. 

It  was  afternoon  when  we  left  Strassburg,  and  by 
nightfall  we  were  in  the  Black  Forest — farther  in 
than  we  had  intended  to  be,  by  a  good  deal.  With 
our  tires  in  a  steady  decline  we  had  no  intention  of 
wandering  off  into  dark  depths  inhabited  by  fairies 
and  woodcutters  and  full  of  weird  enchantments, 
with  all  of  which  Grimm's  tales  had  made  us  quite 
familiar.  We  had  intended  merely  to  go  in  a  little 
way,  by  a  main  road  that  would  presently  take  us 
to  Freiburg,  where  there  would  be  a  new  supply  of 
patches  and  linings,  and  even  a  possibility  of  tires, 
in  case  our  need  became  very  sore. 

But  the  Black  Forest  made  good  its  reputation 
for  enchantments.  When  we  came  to  the  spot 
where,  by  our  map,  the  road  should  lead  to  Freiburg, 
there  were  only  a  deserted  mill,  with  a  black  depth 
of  pine  growing  where  the  road  should  have  been. 
Following  along,  we  foimd  ourselves  getting  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  thick  forest,  while  the  lonely 
road  became  steeper  and  narrower  and  more  and 


310        THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

more  awesome  in  the  gathering  evening.  There 
were  no  villages,  no  more  houses  of  any  kind.  There 
had  been  rain  and  the  steep  hills  grew  harder  to 
dimb.  But  perhaps  a  good  fairy  was  helping  us, 
too,  a  little,  for  our  crippled  tires  held.  Each  time 
we  mounted  a  perpendicular  crest  I  Hstened  for  the 
back  ones  to  go,  but  they  remained  firm. 

By  and  by  we  started  down — down  where  we  had 
no  notion — ^but  certainly  down.  Being  under  a 
spell,  I  forgot  to  put  on  the  engine  brake,  and  by  the 
time  we  were^  halfway  down  the  hill  the  brake  bands 
were  hot  and  smoking.  By  the  time  we  were  down 
the  greasy  linings  were  afire.  There  was  a  brook 
there,  and  we  stopped  and  poured  water  on  our  hot- 
boxes  and  waited  for  them  to  cool.  A  woodcutter — 
he  must  have  been  one,  for  only  woodcutters  and 
fairies  live  in  the  Black  Forest — came  along  and 
told  us  we  must  go  to  Haslach — ^that  there  was  no 
other  road  to  Freiburg,  unless  we  turned  around  and 
went  back  nearly  to  Strassburg.  I  would  not  have 
gone  back  up  that  hill  and  through  those  darkening 
woods  for  much  money.  So  we  went  on  and  presently 
came  out  into  a  more  open  space,  and  some  houses; 
then  we  came  to  Haslach. 

By  our  map  we  were  in  the  depths  of  the  Schwarz- 
wald,  and  by  observation  we  could  see  that  we  were 
in  an  old,  beautiful  village,  of  the  right  sort  for  that 
locality,  and  in  front  of  a  big  inn,  where  frauleins 
came  out  to  take  our  bags  and  show  us  up  to  big 
rooms — rooms  that  had  great  billowy  beds,  with 
other  billowy  beds  for  covering.  After  aU,  the 
enchantment  was  not  so  bad.     And  the  supper  that 


STRASSBURG  AND  THE  BLACK  FOREST     311 

night  of  Wiener  schnitzel  and  pfannekuchen  was  cer- 
tainly good,  and  hot,  and  plentiful  beyond  belief. 

But  there  was  more  trouble  next  morning.  One 
of  those  old  back  tires  was  in  a  desperate  condition, 
and  trying  to  improve  it  I  seemed  to  make  matters 
worse,  I  took  it  off  and  put  in  a  row  of  blow-out 
patches  all  the  way  aroimd,  after  which  the  inner 
tubes  popped  as  fast  as  I  could  put  them  in  and 
blow  them  up.  Three  times  I  yanked  that  tire  off, 
and  then  it  began  to  occur  to  me  that  all  those  inside 
patches  took  up  too  much  room.  It  would  have 
occurred  to  any  other  man  sooner,  but  it  takes  a 
long  and  violent  period  of  pumping  exercise  to  get 
a  brain  like  mine  really  loosened  up  once  it  is  caked 
by  a  good  night's  sleep. 

So  I  yanked  those  patches  out  and  put  on  our  last 
hope — a  spare  tire  in  fairly  decent  condition,  and 
patiently  patched  those  bursted  tubes — all  of  which 
work  was  done  in  a  hot  place  imder  the  eyes  of  a 
kindly  but  maddening  audience. 

Three  times  in  the  lovely  land  between  Haslach 
and  Freiburg  Narcissa  and  I  had  to  take  off  a  tire 
and  change  tubes,  those  new  patches  being  not  air- 
proof.  Still,  we  got  on,  and  the  scenery  made  up 
for  a  good  deal.  Nothing  could  be  more  picturesque 
than  the  Black  Forest  houses,  with  their  great  over- 
hanging thatched  roofs — their  rows  and  clusters  of 
Httle  windows,  their  galleries  and  ladders,  and  their 
clinging  vines.  And  what  kindly  people  they  are. 
Many  of  the  roads  are  lined  with  cherry  trees  and 
this  was  cherry  season.  The  trees  were  full  of 
gatherers,  and  we  had  only  to  stop  and  offer  to  buy 

21 


312         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

to  have  them  load  us  with  the  deHcious  black  fruit, 
the  sweetest,  juiciest  cherries  in  the  world.  They 
accepted  money,  but  reluctantly;  they  seemed  to 
prefer  to  give  them  to  us,  and  more  than  once  a  boy 
or  a  man  ran  along  by  the  car  and  threw  in  a  great 
loaded  branch,  and  laughed,  and  waved  and  wished 
us  gute  reise.  But  this  had  happened  to  us  in  France, 
too,  in  the  Lorraine. 


Chapter  XXXIV 

A   LAND  WHERE   STORKS   LIVE 

WE  were  at  Freiburg  in  the  lower  edge  of  the 
Black  Forest  some  time  during  the  afternoon, 
one  of  the  cleanest  cities  I  have  ever  seen,  one  of  the 
richest  in  color  scheme.  Large  towns  are  not  likely 
to  be  picturesque,  but  Freiburg,  in  spite  of  its  general 
freshness,  has  a  look  of  solid  antiquity — an  antiquity 
that  has  not  been  allowed  to  go  to  seed.  Many  of 
the  houses,  including  the  cathedral,  are  built  of  a 
rich  red  stone,  and  some  of  them  have  outer  decora- 
tions, and  nearly  all  of  them  have  beautiful  flowers 
in  the  windows  and  along  the  balconies.  I  should 
think  a  dweller  in  Freiburg  would  love  the  place. 

Freiburg  has  been,  and  still  is,  celebrated  for  many 
things;  its  universities,  its  cathedral,  its  ancient 
buildings,  in  recent  years  for  its  discovery  of  "twilight 
sleep,"  the  latest  boon  which  science  has  offered  to 
sorrow-laden  humanity. 

It  is  a  curious  road  from  Freiburg  to  Basle.  Some- 
times it  is  a  highway,  sometimes  it  is  merely  a  farm 
road  across  fields.  More  than  once  we  felt  sure  we 
were  lost  and  must  presently  bring  up  in  a  farmyard. 
Then  suddenly  we  would  be  between  fine  hedges 
or  trees,  on  a  wide  road  entering  a  village. 

We  had  seen  no  storks  when  we  left  Freiburg.  We 
had  been  told  there  were  some  in  Strassburg,  but 


314         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

no  one  had  been  able  to  point  them  out.  We  were 
disappointed,  for  we  had  pictured  in  our  minds  that, 
once  really  in  the  Black  Forest,  there  would  be,  in 
almost  any  direction,  a  tall  chimney  surmotmted 
by  a  big  brushy  nest,  with  a  stork  sitting  in  it,  and 
standing  by,  supported  on  one  very  slim,  very  long, 
very  perpendicular  leg,  another  stork,  keeping  guard. 
This  is  the  picture  we  had  seen  many  times  in  the 
books,  and  we  were  grieved,  even  rather  resentful, 
that  it  was  not  to  be  fotmd  in  reality.  We  decided 
that  it  probably  belonged  only  in  the  books,  fairy 
books,  and  that  while  there  might  have  been  storks 
once,  just  as  there  had  once  been  fairies,  they  had 
disappeared  from  mortal  vision  about  the  same  time 
— that  nobody  in  late  years  had  really  seen  storks — 
that — 

But  just  then  we  really  saw  some  ourselves — sure- 
enough  storks  on  an  old  steeple,  two  of  them,  exactly 
as  they  always  are  in  the  pictures,  one  nice  mother 
stork  sitting  in  a  brushy  nest  and  one  nice  father 
stork  standing  on  his  stiff,  perpendicular  leg. 

We  stopped  the  car  to  gaze.  The  church  was  in 
an  old  lost-looking  village,  which  this  stork  seemed 
to  own,  for  there  were  no  others,  and  the  few  people 
we  saw  did  not  appear  to  have  anything  like  the 
stork's  proprietary  interest.  We  could  hardly  take 
our  eyes  from  that  old  picture,  suddenly  made  reaHty. 

We  concluded,  however,  that  it  was  probably  the 
only  stork  family  in  Germany;  but  that,  also,  was  a 
mistake.  A  little  farther  along,  at  another  village, 
was  another  old  stubby  steeple,  and  another  pair  of 
storks,  both  standing  this  time,  probably  to  see  us 


A  LAND  WHERE  STORKS  LIVE  315 

go  by.  Every  village  had  them  now,  but  I  think 
in  only  one  village  did  we  see  more  than  a  single  pair. 
That  little  comer  of  the  Schwarzwald  will  always 
remain  to  us  a  part  separated  from  the  rest  of  the 
world — a  sort  of  back-water  of  fairyland. 

The  German  customs  office  is  on  one  side  of  a  road, 
the  Swiss  on  the  other,  and  we  stopped  in  a  shady 
place  and  interviewed  both.  We  did  not  dread  these 
encoimters  any  more.  We  had  long  since  learned 
that  if  there  was  one  class  of  persons  abroad  likely  to 
be  more  courteous  than  others  to  travelers,  that  class 
is  the  customs  officials. 

This  particular  frontier  was  in  the  edge  of  Basle, 
and  presently  we  had  crossed  a  bridge  and  were  in 
the  city,  a  big,  beautiful  city,  though  not  so  hand- 
some as  Freiburg,  not  so  rich  in  color,  not  quite  so 
clean  and  floral. 

We  did  not  stop  in  Basle.  There  are  wonders  to  be 
seen,  but,  all  things  considered,  we  thought  it  better 
to  go  on.  With  good  luck  we  might  reach  Vevey 
next  day,  our  European  headquarters  and  base  of 
supplies.  We  had  been  more  than  two  months  on 
the  road  already;  it  was  important  that  we  get  to 
headquarters — more  important  than  we  knew. 


Chapter  XXXV 

BACK  TO   VEVEY 

OO  we  went  wandering  through  a  rather  iinpop- 
^  ulous,  semi-motmtainous  land — a  prosperous  land, 
from  the  look  of  it,  with  big  isolated  factory  plants 
here  and  there  by  strongly  flowing  streams.  They 
seemed  to  be  making  almost  everything  along  those 
streams.  The  Swiss  are  an  industrious  people. 
Toward  evening  we  came  to  a  place  we  had  never 
heard  of  before,  a  town  of  size  and  of  lofty  buildings 
— a.  place  of  much  manufacturing,  completely  lost 
up  in  the  hills,  by  name  Moutier.  It  was  better 
not  to  go  farther  that  night,  for  I  could  see  by  our 
road  map  that  there  was  going  to  be  some  steep 
cHmbing  between  Moutier  and  the  Lake  Geneva 
slope.  There  are  at  least  two  divides  between 
Moutier  and  Geneva,  and  Swiss  watersheds  are 
something  more  than  mere  gentle  slopes  such  as  one 
might  meet  in  Ohio,  for  instance,  or  Illinois.  They 
are  generally  scrambles — they  sometimes  resemble 
ladders,  though  the  road  smface  is  usually  pretty 
good,  with  a  few  notable  exceptions.  We  met  one 
of  these  exceptions  next  morning  below  Moutier. 
There  had  been  rains,  and  the  slippery  roads  between 
those  perpendicular  skyscraping  bluffs  had  not 
dried  at  all.  Our  route  followed  a  rushing  stream 
a  little  way;  then  it  turned  into  the  hill,  and  at  that 


BACK  TO  VEVEY  317 

point  I  saw  ahead  of  me  a  road  that  was  not  a  road 
at  all,  but  a  semi-perpendicular  wallow  of  mud  and 
stone  that  went  writhing  up  and  up  until  it  was  lost 
somewhere  among  the  trees.  I  had  expected  a  good 
deal,  but  nothing  as  bad  as  this.  I  gave  one  wild, 
hopeless  thought  to  our  poor  crippled  rear  tires, 
threw  the  lever  from  third  to  second,  from  second  back 
to  first,  and  let  in  every  ounce  of  gasoline  the  engine 
would  take.  It  really  never  occurred  to  me  that  we 
were  going  to  make  it.  I  did  not  beheve  anything 
could  hold  in  that  mud,  and  I  expected  in  another 
minute  to  be  on  the  side  of  the  road,  with  nothing 
to  do  but  himt  up  an  ox-team.  Whir!  slop!  slosh! 
slide! — grind! — on  one  side  and  on  the  other — into 
a  hole  and  out  of  it,  bump!  thump!  bang! — why,  cer- 
tainly we  are  climbing,  but  we  would  never  make 
the  top,  never  in  the  world — it  was  hardly  to  be 
expected  of  any  car;  and  with  those  old  tires !  Never 
mind,  we  would  go  till  we  stalled,  or  skidded  out 
of  the  road. 

We  were  at  the  turn !  We  had  made  the  turn !  We 
were  going  straight  up  the  last  rise !  Only  a  little  more, 
now — ten  feet — five  feet,  six  inchest  Hooray!  we 
were  on  top  of  the  hill,  b'gosh! 

I  got  out  and  looked  at  the  back  tires.  It  was 
incredible,  impossible,  but  they  were  as  soimd  and 
soHd  as  when  we  left  Moutier.  Practically  our 
whole  weight  had  been  on  those  tires  all  the  way  up 
that  fearful  log-haul,  for  that  is  what  it  was,  yet 
those  old  tubes  and  outer  envelopes  had  not  shown 
a  sign.     Explain  it  if  you  can. 

There  was  really  no  trouble  after  that.    There 


3i8         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

were  hills,  but  the  roads  were  good.  Our  last  day 
was  a  panorama  of  Swiss  scenery  in  every  form; 
deep  gorges  where  we  stopped  on  bridges  to  look 
down  at  rushing  torrents  far  below;  lofty  mountains 
with  narrow,  skirting  roads;  beautiful  water-fronts 
and  lake  towns  along  the  lakes  of  Biel  and  Neuf- 
ch^tel,  a  final  Itmcheon  under  a  great  spreading 
shade — a  birthday  limcheon,  as  it  happened — and 
then,  toward  the  end  of  the  lovely  July  afternoon,  a 
sudden  vision,  from  high  harvest  meadows,  of  the 
snow-clad  moimtaintops  beyond  Lake  Geneva — the 
peaks  of  the  true  Alps.  And  presently  one  saw  the 
lake  itself,  the  water — ^hazy,  dreamy,  summery,  with 
little  steamers  so  gay  and  toylike,  plying  up  and 
down — all  far  below  us  as  yet,  for  we  were  still  among 
the  high  hayfields,  where  harvesters  were  pitching 
and  raking,  while  before  and  behind  us  our  road  was 
a  procession  of  hay  wagons. 

It  was  a  continuous  coast,  now,  down  to  Lausanne 
— the  lake,  as  it  seemed,  rising  up  to  meet  us,  its 
colors  and  outlines  becoming  more  vivid,  the  lofty 
mountains  beyond  it  approaching  a  little  nearer, 
while  almost  tmdemeath  us  a  beautiful  city  was 
gleaming  in  the  late  afternoon  simshine. 

We  were  by  this  time  among  the  vineyards  that 
terrace  those  south-facing  steeps  to  the  water's  edge. 
Then  we  were  at  the  outskirts  of  the  city  itself,  still 
descending,  still  coasting,  for  Lausanne  is  built 
mainly  on  a  moimtainside.  When  we  came  to  a 
comparative  level  at  last,  we  were  crossing  a  great 
bridge — one  of  those  that  tie  the  several  slopes  of 
the  city  together;  then  presently  we  were  at  St. 


BACK  TO  VEVEY  319 

Frances's  church,  the  chief  center,  and  felt  ahnost 
at  home,  for  we  had  been  here  a  good  many  times 
before. 

We  did  not  stop.  Vevey  was  twelve  miles  down 
the  lake — we  had  a  feverish  desire  to  arrive  there 
without  having  to  pimip  those  tires  again,  if  possible. 
Leisurely,  happily,  we  covered  that  final  lap  of  our 
long  tour.  There  is  no  more  beautiful  drive  in 
Europe  than  that  along  Lake  Geneva,  from  Lausanne 
to  Vevey  on  a  summer  evening,  and  there  never  was 
a  calmer,  sweeter  simimer  evening  than  that  of  our 
return.  Oh,  one  must  drive  slowly  on  such  an 
evening!  We  were  anxious  to  arrive,  but  not  to  have 
the  drive  ended.  Far  down  the  lake  the  Uttle  towns 
we  knew  so  well  began  to  appear — Territet,  Montreux, 
Clarens,  Vevey  la  Tour — we  could  even  make  out 
the  towers  of  Chillon.  Then  we  passed  below  the 
ancient  village  lianging  to  the  mountainside,  and 
there  was  Vevey,  and  there  at  its  outskirts  our  pretty 
hotel  with  its  big  gay  garden,  the  blue  lake  just  in 
front,  the  driveway  open.  A  moment  more  and  the 
best  landlady  in  Eiu*ope  was  welcoming  us  in  the 
most  musical  French  and  German  in  the  world. 
Our  long  round  was  ended — three  thousand  miles  of 
the  happiest  travel  to  be  foimd  this  side  of  paradise. 
By  and  by  I  went  out  to  look  at  oiu"  faithful  car  in 
the  little  hotel  garage.  It  had  stood  up  to  the  last 
moment  on  those  old  tires.  I  suppose  then  the 
tension  was  too  much.    The  left  rear  was  quite  flat. 


Chapter  XXXVI 

THE   GREAT  UPHEAVAL 

IT  was  the  loth  of  July  that  we  returned  to  Vevey, 
and  it  was  just  three  weeks  later  that  the  world — 
a  world  of  peace  and  the  social  interchange  of  nations 
— came  to  an  end. 

We  had  heard  at  Tours  of  the  assassination  of  the 
Austrian  archduke  and  his  duchess,  but  no  thought 
of  the  long-threatened  European  war  entered  our 
minds.  Neither  did  we  discover  later  any  indica- 
tions of  it.  If  there  was  any  tension  along  the 
Franco-German  border  we  failed  to  notice  it.  Arriv- 
ing at  Vevey,  there  seemed  not  a  ripple  on  the  drowsy 
summer  days.  Even  when  Austria  finally  sent  her 
ultimattmi  to  Serbia  there  was  scarcely  a  suggestion 
of  war  talk.  We  had  all  the  nations  in  oiu:  hotel, 
but  they  assembled  harmoniously  in  the  little  reading 
room  after  dinner  over  the  papers  and  innocuous 
games,  and  if  the  situation  was  discussed  at  all,  the 
word  "arbitration"  was  oftenest  heard. 

Neither  did  the  news  come  to  us  gradually  or 
gently.  It  came  like  a  bomb,  exploded  one  evening 
by  Billy  Baker,  an  American  boy  of  sixteen  and  a 
bulletin  of  sorts.  Billy  had  been  for  his  customary- 
after-dinner  walk  uptown,  and  it  was  clear  the 
instant  he  plunged  in  that  he  had  gathered  some- 
thing unusual. 


THE  GREAT  UPHEAVAL  321 

"Say,  folks,"  he  burst  out,  "did  you  know  that 
Austria  has  declared  war  against  Serbia  and  is  bom- 
barding Belgrade,  and  now  all  the  others  are  going 
to  declare,  and  that  us  Americans  have  got  to  beat 
it  for  home?" 

There  was  a  general  stir.  Billy's  items  were  often 
delivered  in  this  abrupt  way,  but  his  news  facts  were 
seldom  questioned.  He  went  on,  adding  a  quick, 
crisp  detail,  while  the  varied  nationalities  assumed 
attitudes  of  attention.  The  little  group  aroimd  the 
green  center  table  forgot  what  they  were  there  for. 
I  had  just  drawn  a  spade  when  I  needed  a  heart,  and 
did  not  mind  the  diversion.  Billy  concluded  his 
dispatches : 

"We've  all  got  to  beat  it,  you  know,  tww,  before 
all  the  ships  and  trains  and  things  are  used  for  mobi- 
lization and  before  the  fighting  begins.  If  we  don't 
we'll  have  to  stay  here  all  winter."  Then,  his  mis- 
sion finished,  Billy  in  his  prompt  way  pulled  a  chair 
to  the  table.  "Let  me  in  this,  will  you?"  he  said. 
"I  feel  awfully  lucky  to-night." 

Americans  laugh  at  most  things.  We  laughed 
now  at  Billy  Baker — at  the  dramatic  manner  of  his 
news,  with  its  picturesque  even  if  stupendous  possi- 
bilities— at  the  vision  in  everyone's  mind  of  a  horde 
of  American  tourists  "beating  it"  out  of  Europe  at 
the  first  drum-roll  of  war. 

But  not  all  in  the  room  laughed.  The  "little 
countesses" — two  Russian  girls — and  their  white- 
haired  companion,  talked  rapidly  and  earnestly 
together  in  low  voices.  The  retired  French  admiral — 
old  and  invalided — rose,  his  long  cape  flung  back 


322         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

across  his  shoulder,  and  walked  feebly  up  and  down, 
stopping  at  each  turn  to  speak  to  his  aged  wife,  who 
sat  with  their  son,  himself  an  officer  on  leave.  An 
English  judge,  with  a  son  at  home,  fraternized  with 
the  Americans  and  tried  to  be  gay  with  them,  but 
his  mirth  lacked  freedom.  A  German  family  instinc- 
tively separated  themselves  from  the  others  and 
presently  were  no  longer  in  the  room.  Even  one 
of  the  Americans — a  Southern  girl — ^laughed  rather 
hysterically : 

"All  my  baggage  but  one  suit  case  is  stored  in 
Frankfort,"  she  said.  "If  Germany  goes  to  war  I'll 
have  a  gay  time  getting  it." 

Morning  brought  confirmation  of  Billy  Baker's 
news,  at  least  so  far  as  Austria's  action  was  con- 
cerned, and  the  imminence  of  what  promised  to  be 
a  concerted  movement  of  other  great  nations  toward 
war.  It  was  said  that  Russia  was  already  mobilizing 
— that  troops  were  in  motion  in  Germany  and  in 
France.  That  night,  or  it  may  have  been  the  next, 
a  telegram  came  for  the  young  French  officer,  sum- 
moning him  to  his  regiment.  His  little  son  of  nine 
or  ten  raced  about  excitedly. 

"UAllemagne  a  mobilise — mon  pkre  va  d  la  guerre!'* 

The  old  admiral,  too  feeble,  almost,  to  be  out  of 
bed,  seemed  to  take  on  a  new  bearing. 

"I  thought  I  was  done  with  war,"  he  said.  "I  am 
an  invalid,  and  they  could  not  call  on  me.  But  if 
France  is  attacked  I  shall  go  and  fight  once  more  for 
my  country." 

The  German  family — there  were  two  grown  sons 
in  it — ^had  already  disappeared. 


THE  GREAT  UPHEAVAL  323 

It  was  about  the  third  morning  that  I  took  a  walk 
down  to  the  American  Consulate.  I  had  been  there 
before,  but  had  not  foimd  it  exciting.  It  had  been 
a  place  of  silence  and  inactivity.  There  were  gen- 
erally a  few  flies  drifting  about,  and  a  bored-looking 
man  who  spent  an  hour  or  two  there  morning  and 
afternoon,  killing  time  and  glad  of  any  little  diversion 
in  the  way  of  company. 

The  Consulate  was  no  longer  a  place  of  silence  and 
buzzing  flies.  There  was  buzzing  in  plenty,  but  it 
was  made  by  my  fellow  countrymen — country- 
women, most  of  them — who  were  indeed  making 
things  hum.  I  don't  know  whether  the  consul  was 
bored  or  not.  I  know  he  was  answering  questions 
at  the  rate  of  one  per  second,  and  even  so  not  keeping 
up  with  the  demand  for  information. 

"Is  there  going  to  be  a  war?"  "Is  England  going 
into  it?"  "Has  Germany  declared  yet?"  "Will  we 
be  safe  in  Switzerland?"  "Will  all  Americans  be 
ordered  home  ?"  "  Are  the  trains  going  to  be  stopped  ?' ' 
"Will  we  have  to  have  passports?"  "I  have  got  a 
sailing  in  September.  Will  the  ships  be  nmning  then  ?" 
"How  can  I  send  a  letter  to  my  husband  in  Ger- 
many?" "How  about  money?  Are  the  Swiss  banks 
going  to  stop  payment  on  letters  of  credit?" — these, 
repeated  in  every  varying  form,  and  a  hundred  other 
inquiries  that  only  a  first-class  registered  clairvoyant 
could  have  answered  with  confidence.  The  consul 
was  good-natured.  He  was  also  an  optimist.  His 
repUes  in  general  conveyed  the  suggestion  to  "keep 
cool,"  that  everything  was  going  to  be  all  right. 

The  Swiss  banks,  however,  did  stop  payment  on 


324         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

letters  of  credit  and  various  forms  of  checks  forth- 
with. I  had  a  very  pretty-looking  check  myself, 
and  a  day  or  two  before  I  had  been  haggling  with 
the  bank  man  over  the  rate  of  exchange,  which  had 
been  gently  declining.  I  said  I  would  hold  it  for 
better  terms.  But  on  the  day  that  Germany  declared 
war  I  decided  to  cash  it,  anyway,  just  to  have  a  little 
extra  money  in  case — 

Oh,  well,  never  mind  the  details.  I  didn't  cash  it. 
The  bank  man  looked  at  it,  smiled  feebly,  and  pointed 
to  a  notice  on  the  wall.  It  was  in  French,  but  it 
was  an  "easy  lesson."    It  said: 

No  more  checks  or  letters  of  credit  cashed  until  further  notice. 

By  order  of  the  Association. 

I  don't  know  yet  what  "Association"  it  was  that 
was  heartless  enough  to  give  an  order  like  that,  but 
I  hoped  it  would  live  to  repent  it.  The  bank  man 
said  that  in  view  of  my  position  as  a  depositor  he 
might  be  induced  to  advance  me  lo  per  cent  of  the 
amount  of  the  check.  The  next  day  he  even  refused 
to  take  it  for  collection.  Switzerland  is  prudent; 
she  had  mobilized  her  army  about  the  second  day 
and  sent  it  to  the  frontier.  We  had  been  down  to 
the  big  market  place  to  see  it  go.  I  never  saw  any- 
thing more  quiet — ^more  orderly.  She  had  mobi- 
lized her  cash  in  the  same  prompt,  orderly  fashion 
and  sent  it  into  safe  retirement. 

It  was  a  sorrowful  time,  and  it  was  not  merely 
American — ^it  was  international.  Switzerland  never 
saw  such  a  "busted  commimity"  as  her  tourists  pre- 


THE  GREAT  UPHEAVAL  325 

sented  during  August,  1914.  Every  day  was  Black 
Friday.  Almost  nobody  had  any  real  money.  A 
Russian  nobleman  in  our  hotel  with  a  letter  of  credit 
and  a  roU  of  national  currency  could  not  pay  for  his 
afternoon  tea.  The  Uttle  coimtesses  had  to  stop 
buying  chocolates.  An  American  army  officer, 
retired,  was  unable  to  meet  his  laundry  bill.  Even 
Swiss  bank  notes  (there  were  none  less  than  fifty 
francs  in  the  beginning)  were  of  small  service,  for 
there  was  no  change.  All  the  silver  had  disappeared 
as  if  it  had  suddenly  dissolved.  As  for  gold — lately 
so  plentiful — one  no  longer  even  uttered  the  word 
without  emotion.  Getting  away,  "beating  it,"  as 
Billy  had  expressed  it,  was  still  a  matter  of  prime 
importance,  but  it  had  taken  second  place.  The 
immediate  question  was  how  and  where  to  get  money 
for  the  "beating"  process.  The  whole  talk  was 
money.  Any  little  group  collected  on  the  street 
might  begin  by  discussing  the  war,  but,  in  whatever  lan- 
guage, the  discussion  drifted  presently  to  finance. 
The  optimistic  consul  was  still  reassuring.  To  some 
he  advanced  funds — he  was  more  liberal  than  the 
Bank  of  Switzerland. 

There  was  a  percentage,  of  course — a  lucky  few — 
who  had  money,  and  these  were  getting  away.  There 
were  enough  of  them  along  the  Simplon  Railway  to 
crowd  the  trains.  Every  train  for  Paris  went  through 
with  the  seats  and  aisles  full.  All  schedules  were 
disordered.  There  was  no  telling  when  a  train  would 
come,  or  when  it  would  arrive  in  Paris.  Billy  Baker 
promptly  mobilized  his  party  and  they  left  sometime 
in  the  night — or  it  may  have  been  in  the  morning. 


326         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

after  a  night  of  waiting.  It  was  the  last  regular  train 
to  go.     We  did  not  learn  of  its  fortunes. 

No  word  came  back  from  those  who  left  us.  They 
all  went  with  promises  to  let  us  know,  but  a  veil 
dropped  behind  them.  They  were  as  those  who  pass 
beyond  the  things  of  earth.  We  heard  something 
of  their  belongings,  however.  Sometimes  on  clear 
days  a  new  range  of  mountains  seemed  to  be  growing 
in  the  west.  It  was  thought  to  be  the  American 
baggage  heaped  on  the  French  frontier.  Very  hkely 
our  friends  wrote  to  us,  but  there  was  no  more  mail. 
The  last  American,  French,  and  English  letters  came 
August  3d.  The  last  Paris  Herald  hung  on  the  hotel 
file  and  became  dingy  and  tattered  with  rereading. 
No  mails  went  out.  One  could  amuse  himself  by 
writing  letters  and  dropping  them  in  the  post  office, 
but  he  would  know,  when  he  passed  a  week  later, 
that  they  had  remained  there.  You  could  still  cable, 
if  you  wished  to  do  so — ^in  French — and  there  must 
have  been  a  scramble  in  America  for  French  diction- 
aries, and  a  brisk  himting  for  the  English  equivalents 
of  whatever  terse  Berlitz  idiom  was  used  to  convey: 

"Money  in  a  hurry — dead  broke." 

Various  economies  began  to  be  planned  or  practiced. 
Guests  began  to  do  without  afternoon  tea,  or  to 
make  it  themselves  in  their  rooms.  Few  were  pay- 
ing their  hotel  bills,  yet  some  went  to  cheaper 
places,  frightened  at  the  reckoning  that  was  piling 
up  against  settling  day.  Others,  with  a  little  store 
of  money,  took  very  modest  apartments  and  did  light 
housekeeping  to  stretch  their  dwindling  substance. 
Some,  even  among  those  at  the  hotels,  in  view  of  the 


THE  GREAT  UPHEAVAL  327 

general  uncertainty,  began  to  lay  in  tinned  meats 
and  other  durable  food  against  a  time  of  scarcity. 
It  was  said  that  Switzerland,  surroimded  by  war, 
would  presently  be  short  of  provisions.  Indeed, 
grocers,  by  order  of  the  authorities,  had  already  cut 
down  the  sale  of  staples,  and  no  more  than  a  pound 
or  two  of  any  one  article  was  sold  to  a  single  pur- 
chaser. Hotels  were  obliged  to  send  their  servants, 
one  after  another,  and  even  their  guests,  to  get  enough 
sugar  and  coffee  and  salt  to  go  around.  Hotel  bills 
of  fare — always  lavish  in  Switzerland — began  to 
be  cut  down,  by  request  of  the  guests  themselves.  It 
was  a  time  to  worry,  or — to  "beat  it"  for  home. 

We  fell  into  the  habit  of  visiting  the  Consulate  each 
morning.  When  we  had  looked  over  the  little  local 
French  paper  and  foimd  what  new  nations  had 
declared  war  against  Germany  overnight,  we  strolled 
down  to  read  the  bulletins  on  the  Consulate  windows, 
which  generally  told  us  what  steamer  lines  had  been 
discontinued,  and  how  we  couldn't  get  money  on 
o\ir  checks  and  letters  of  credit.  Inside,  an  active 
commerce  was  in  progress.  No  passport  had  been 
issued  from  that  Consulate  for  years.  Nobody  in 
Europe  needed  one.  You  could  pass  about  as  freely 
from  Switzerland  to  France  or  Germany  as  you  could 
from  Delaware  to  New  Jersey. 

Things  were  different  now.  With  all  Europe 
going  to  war,  passports  properly  vis^d  were  as  neces- 
sary as  train  tickets.  The  consul,  swamped  with 
applications,  had  called  for  volunteers,  and  at  several 
little  tables  young  men  were  saying  that  they  did  not 
know   most   of   the   things   those  anxious  people— 

22 


328         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

women,  mainly — were  asking  about,  but  that  every- 
thing would  surely  be  all  right,  soon.  Meantime,  they 
were  helping  their  questioners  make  out  applications 
for  passports. 

There  were  applications  for  special  things — per- 
sonal things.  There  was  a  woman  who  had  a  hus- 
band lost  somewhere  in  Germany  and  was  convinced 
he  would  be  shot  as  a  spy.  There  was  a  man  who 
had  been  appointed  to  a  post  office  in  America  and 
was  fearful  of  losing  it  if  he  did  not  get  home  imme- 
diately. There  were  anxious-faced  Uttle  school- 
teachers who  had  saved  for  years  to  pay  for  a  few 
weeks  abroad,  and  were  now  with  only  some  useless 
travelers'  checks  and  a  return  ticket  on  a  steamer 
which  they  could  not  reach,  and  which  might  not 
sail  even  if  they  reached  it.  And  what  of  their 
positions  in  America?  Theirs  were  the  sorrowful 
cases,  and  there  were  others. 

But  the  crowd  was  good-natured,  as  a  whole — 
Americans  are  generally  that.  The  stranded  ones 
saw  himior  in  their  situation,  and  confessed  to  one 
another — ^friends  and  strangers  alike — their  poverty 
and  their  predicaments,  laughing  a  good  deal,  as 
Americans  will.  But  there  were  anxious  faces,  too, 
and  everybody  wanted  to  know  a  nimiber  of  things, 
which  he  asked  of  everybody  else,  and  of  the  consul — 
oh,  especially  of  the  consul — until  that  good-natured 
soul  was  obliged  to  take  an  annex  office  upstairs 
where  he  could  attend  to  the  manufacture  of  pass- 
ports, while  downstairs  a  Brooklyn  judge  was 
appointed  to  supervise  matters  and  deal  out  official 
information  in  judicial  form. 


THE  GREAT  UPHEAVAL  329 

The  judge  was  qualified  for  his  appointment. 
Every  morning  before  ten  o'clock — opening  time — 
he  got  together  all  the  matters — letters,'  telegrams, 
and  the  like — that  would  be  apt  to  interest  the  crowd, 
and  dealt  this  substance  out  in  a  speech,  at  the  end 
of  which  he  invited  inquiries  on  any  point  he  had 
failed  to  make  clear. 

He  got  them,  too — mainly  questions  that  he  had 
already  answered,  because  there  is  a  type  of  mind 
which  does  not  consider  information  valid  unless 
delivered  to  it  individually  and  in  person.  I 
remember,  once,  when  among  other  wild  rumors  it 
had  been  reported  that  because  of  the  food  scarcity 
all  foreigners  would  be  ordered  out  of  Switzerland 
in  five  days,  a  woman  who  had  listened  attentively 
to  the  judge's  positive  and  thrice-repeated  denial  of 
this  canard  promptly  asked  him  if  she  could  stay  in 
Switzerland  if  she  wanted  to.  ^ 

The  judge's  speech  became  the  chief  interest  of 
the  day.  It  was  the  regular  American  program 
to  assemble  in  front  of  the  Consulate,  exchanging 
experiences  and  reading  the  bulletins  imtil  opening 
time.  The  place  was  in  a  quiet  side  street  of  the 
quaint  old  Swiss  city,  a  step  from  the  lake-front 
promenade,  with  a  backgroimd  of  blue  mountains 
and  still  bluer  water.  Across  the  street  stood  a  six- 
teenth-century chateau  with  its  gardens  of  greenery. 
At  ten  the  Consulate  doors  opened  and  the  little 
group  pressed  in  for  the  speech.  I  am  sure  no  one 
in  our  stranded  assembly  will  easily  forget  those 
mornings. 

Promising  news  began  to  come.    The  judge  an- 


330         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

nounced  one  morning  that  five  hundred  thousand 
francs  had  been  placed,  to  the  consular  credit  in 
Switzerland  by  America  for  the  relief  of  her  citizens. 
Great  happiness  for  the  moment!  Hope  lighted 
every  face.  Then  some  mathematician  figured  that 
five  hundred  thousand  francs  amoimted  to  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars,  and  that  there  were  ten  thousand 
Americans  in  Switzerland — hence,  ten  dollars  apiece. 
The  light  of  hope  grew  dim.  There  was  not  a  soul 
in  that  crowd  who  needed  less  than  two  hundred 
dollars  to  pay  his  board  and  get  him  home.  Ten 
thousand  times  two  hundred — ^it  is  a  sizable  sum. 
And  what  of  the  rest  of  Europe?  The  mathematician 
figured  that  there  were  a  quarter  of  a  million  Amer- 
icans in  Europe,  all  willing  to  go  home,  and  that  it 
would  take  fifty  million  dollars  and  a  fleet  of  five  hun- 
dred fair-sized  ships  to  deliver  them  in  New  York. 

Still,  that  five  hundred  thousand  francs  served  a 
good  purpose.  An  allotment  of  it  foimd  its  way  to 
our  consul,  to  use  at  his  discretion.  It  came  to  the 
right  man.  Here  and  there  were  those  who  had 
neither  money  nor  credit.  To  such  he  had  already 
advanced  money  from  his  own  limited  supply.  His 
allowance,  now,  would  provide  for  those  needy  ones 
until  more  came.  It  was  not  sufficient,  however, 
to  provide  one  woman  with  three  himdred  francs  to 
buy  a  set  of  furs  she  had  selected,  though  she  raged 
up  and  down  the  office  and  threatened  to  report  him 
to  Washington,  and  eventually  flimg  some  papers 
in  his  face.  It  turned  out  later  that  she  was  not  an 
American.  I  don't  know  what  she  was — ^mostly 
wildcat,  I  judge. 


THE  GREAT  UPHEAVAL  331 

Further  news  came — still  better.  The  government 
would  send  a  battleship — the  Tennessee — with  a 
large  sum  of  gold.  The  deposit  of  this  specie  in  the 
banks  of  Europe  would  make  checks  and  letters  of 
credit  good  again.  Various  monies  from  American 
banks,  cabled  for  by  individuals,  would  also  arrive 
on  this  ship. 

Things  generally  looked  brighter.  With  the  British 
fleet  protecting  the  seas,  EngHsh,  French,  and  Dutch 
liners  were  likely  to  keep  their  schedules;  also,  there 
were  some  ItaUan  boats,  though  these  were  reported 
to  be  overrun  by  "swell"  Americans  who  were  paying 
as  high  as  one  thousand  dollars  for  a  single  berth. 
Perhaps  the  report  was  true — I  don't  know.  None 
of  our  crowd  cared  to  investigate. 

There  were  better  plans  nearer  home — plans  for 
"beating  it"  out  of  Switzerland  on  a  big  scale.  Spe- 
cial trains  were  to  be  provided — and  ships.  A  com- 
mission was  coming  on  the  Tennessee  to  arrange 
for  these  things.  The  vessel  had  already  left  New 
York. 

The  crowd  at  the  Consulate  grew  larger  and  more 
feverishly  interested.  AppHcations  for  passports  mul- 
tipHed.  Over  and  over,  and  in  great  detail,  the 
Brooklyn  judge  explained  just  what  was  necessary 
to  insure  free  and  safe  departure  from  Europe  when 
the  time  came  to  go.  Over  and  over  we  questioned 
him  concerning  all  those  things,  and  concerning  ever 
so  many  other  things  that  had  no  particular  bearing 
on  the  subject,  and  he  bore  it  and  beamed  on  us 
and  was  fully  as  patient  as  was  Moses  in  that  other 
wilderness  we  wot  of. 


332         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Trains  began  to  run  again  through  France;  at  least 
they  started,  and  I  suppose  they  arrived  somewhere. 
Four  days,  six  days,  eight  days  was  said  to  be  the 
time  to  Paris,  with  only  third-class  coaches,  day  and 
night,  all  the  aisles  full — no  food  and  no  water  except 
what  was  carried.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  prospect 
and  few  of  our  people  risked  it.  The  Tennessee  was 
reported  to  have  reached  England  and  the  special 
American  trains  were  promised  soon.  In  fact,  one 
was  presently  announced.  It  went  from  Lindau, 
through  Germany,  and  was  too  far  east  for  most  of 
our  crowd.  Then  there  were  trains  from  Lucerne 
and  elsewhere;  also,  special  English  trains.  Then, 
at  last  a  Simplon  train  was  scheduled:  Territet, 
Montreux,  Vevey,  Lausanne,  Geneva — all  aboard 
for  Paris! 

Great  excitement  at  the  Consulate.  The  Tennessee 
money  could  arrive  any  day  now;  everybody  could 
pay  up  and  start.  The  Brooklyn  judge  rehearsed 
each  morning  all  the  old  details  and  presented  all 
the  news  and  requirements.  The  train,  he  said, 
would  go  through  a  nation  that  was  at  war.  It 
would  be  imder  miHtary  surveillance.  Once  on  the 
train,  one  must  stay  on  it  until  it  arrived  in  Paris. 
In  Paris  passengers  must  go  to  the  hotels  selected, 
they  must  leave  at  the  time  arranged  and  by  the 
train  provided,  and  must  accept  without  complaint 
the  ship  and  berth  assigned  to  each.  It  would  be 
a  big  tourist  party  personally  conducted  by  the 
United  States  for  her  exiled  citizens.  The  United 
States  was  not  ordering  its  citizens  to  leave  Switzer- 
land; it  was  merely  providing  a  means  for  those  who 


THE  GREAT  UPHEAVAL  333 

must  go  at  once  and  had  not  provided  for  them- 
selves. The  coaches  would  be  comfortable,  the 
price  as  usual,  red  cards  insuring  each  holder  a  seat 
would  be  issued  at  the  Consulate.  Tickets  through 
to  New  York  would  be  provided  for  those  without 
fimds.  The  government  could  do  no  more.  Any 
questions,  please? 

Then  a  sharp-faced,  black-haired,  tightly  hooked 
woman  got  up  and  wanted  to  know  just  what  style 
the  coaches  would  be — whether  they  would  have 
aisles  down  the  side;  whether  there  would  be  room 
to  He  down  at  will;  whether  meals  would  be  served 
on  the  train;  whether  there  would  be  time  at  Dijon 
to  get  off  and  see  some  friends;  whether  she  could 
take  her  dog;  whether  her  ticket  would  be  good  on 
another  train  if  she  didn't  like  this  one  when  she 
saw  it.  The  judge  will  probably  never  go  into  the 
tourist-agency  business,  even  if  he  retires  from  the 
law. 

Well,  that  particular  train  did  not  go,  after  all. 
Or,  rather,  it  did  go,  but  few  of  otu"  people  went  on 
it.  There  was  a  misunderstanding  somewhere.  The 
Germans  were  getting  down  pretty  close  to  Paris 
just  then,  and  from  the  invisible  "somewhere"  an 
order  came  countermanding  the  train.  The  train 
didn't  hear  of  it,  however,  and  not  all  of  the  people. 
Those  who  took  it  must  have  had  plenty  of  room, 
and  they  must  have  gone  through  safely.  If  the 
Germans  got  them  we  should  have  heard  of  it,  I 
think.  Those  who  failed  to  take  it  were  not  entirely 
sorry.  The  Tennessee  money  had  not  been  distrib- 
uted yet,  and  it  was  badly  needed.    I  don't  know 


334         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

what  delayed  it.  Somewhere — always  in  that  invis- 
ible "somewhere" — ^there  was  a  hitch  about  that, 
too.  It  still  had  not  arrived  when  the  next  train 
was  scheduled — at  least,  not  much  of  it.  It  had  not 
come  on  the  last  afternoon  of  the  last  day,  when  the 
train  was  to  go  early  in  the  morning.  It  was  too 
bad.  There  was  a  borrowing  and  an  arranging  and 
a  negotiating  at  the  banks  that  had  become  somewhat 
less  obdurate  these  last  days,  with  the  Tennessee  in 
the  offing.  But  many  went  away  pretty  short,  and, 
but  for  the  consul,  the  shortness  would  have  been 
shorter  and  more  general. 

It  was  a  fine,  big,  comfortable  train  that  went  next 
morning.  A  little  group  of  us  who  were  not  yet 
ready  to  "beat  it"  went  down  to  see  our  compa- 
triots go.  There  seemed  to  be  room  enough,  and 
at  least  some  of  the  coaches  had  aisles  down  the 
sides.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  sharp-faced, 
tightly  hooked  woman  had  her  dog  or  not.  There 
was  a  great  waving,  and  calling  back,  and  much 
laughter  as  the  train  rolled  away.  You  could  tell 
as  easily  as  anything  that  the  Americans  were  "beat- 
ing it "  for  home. 

Heavy  installments  of  the  Tennessee  money  began 
to  arrive  at  the  Consulate  next  day.  I  got  some  of 
it  myself. 

A  day  or  two  later  I  dropped  into  the  Consulate. 
It  had  become  a  quiet  place  again,  as  in  the  days 
that  already  seemed  very  long  ago.  It  was  hard  to 
believe  in  the  reality  of  the  eager  crowd  that  used  to 
gather  there  every  morning  to  tell  their  troubles  and 
laugh  over  them,  and  to  collect  the  morning  news. 


THE  GREAT  UPHEAVAL  335 

Now,  again,  the  place  was  quite  empty,  except  for 
a  few  flies  drowsing  about  and  the  rather  tired,  bored- 
looking  man  who  came  to  spend  an  hour  or  two  there 
every  morning,  killing  time  and  glad  of  any  little 
diversion  in  the  way  of  company. 


Chapter  XXXVII 

THE  LONG  TRAIL  ENDS 

IT  was  not  until  near  the  end  of  October  that  we 
decided  to  go.  We  had  planned  to  remain  for 
another  winter,  but  the  aspect  of  things  did  not 
improve  as  the  weeks  passed.  With  nine  tenths  of 
Europe  at  war  and  the  other  tenth  drilling,  there 
was  a  lack  of  repose  beneath  the  outward  calm,  even 
of  Vevey.  In  the  midst  of  so  many  nervous  nations, 
to  linger  imtil  spring  might  be  to  remain  permanently. 

Fiuthermore,  our  occupations  were  curtailed.  Auto- 
mobiles were  restricted,  the  gasoline  supply  cut  off. 
The  streets  had  a  fimereal  look.  I  was  told  that  I 
could  get  a  special  permit  to  use  the  car,  but  as  our 
gasoline  supply  consisted  of  just  about  enough  to 
take  us  over  the  Simplon  Pass  into  Italy,  we  decided 
to  conserve  it  for  that  purpose.  The  pass  closes 
with  the  first  big  snow,  usually  the  isth  of  October. 
The  presence  of  many  soldiers  there  would  keep  it 
open  this  year  a  little  longer.  It  could  not  be 
risked,  however,  later  than  the  end  of  the  month. 

We  debated  the  matter  pretty  constantly,  for  the 
days  of  opportunity  were  wasting.  We  wasted  ten 
of  them  making  a  little  rail  and  pedestrian  trip 
around  Switzerland,  though  in  truth  those  ten  glorious 
days  of  October  tramping  along  the  lakes  and  through 


THE  LONG  TRAIL  ENDS  337 

the  hills  are  not  likely  to  be  remembered  as  really 
wasted  by  any  of  us.  When  we  returned  I  got  a 
military  pass  to  take  the  car  out  of  Switzerland,  but 
it  was  still  another  week  before  we  packed  our  heavy 
baggage  and  shipped  it  to  Genoa.  We  were  a  fair 
example  of  any  number  of  families,  no  longer  en- 
thralled by  Europe  and  not  particularly  needed  at 
home.  I  think  hesitation  must  have  nearly  killed 
some  people. 

It  was  the  27th  of  October — a  perfect  morning — 
when  for  the  last  time  I  brought  the  car  to  the  front 
of  our  hotel,  and  we  strapped  on  our  bags  and  with 
sad  hearts  bade  good-by  to  the  loveHest  spot  and 
the  best  people  in  Europe.  Then  presently  we  were 
working  our  way  through  the  gay,  crowded  market 
place  (though  we  did  not  feel  gay)  down  through 
the  narrow,  famihar  streets,  with  their  pretty  shops 
where  we  liad  bought  things,  and  their  little  pdtisseries 
where  we  had  eaten  things;  down  through  La  Tour, 
and  along  the  lake  to  Clarens  and  Montreux,  and 
past  Chillon,  and  so  up  the  valley  of  the  Rhone  to 
Brigue,  the  Swiss  entrance  to  the  Simplon  Pass. 

We  had  new  tires  now,  and  were  not  troubled  about 
our  going;  but  the  world  had  grown  old  and  sad  in 
three  months,  and  the  leaves  were  blowing  off  of 
the  trees,  and  the  glory  had  gone  out  of  life,  because 
men  were  marching  and  killing  one  another  along 
those  happy  fields  that  such  a  little  while  before  had 
known  only  the  poppy  stain  and  the  marching  of 
the  harvesters — along  those  shady  roads  where  good 
souls  had  run  with  the  car  to  hand  us  cherries  and 
wish  us  '*Gute  reise." 


338         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

We  crossed  the  Simplon  in  the  duUness  of  a  gray 
mist,  and  at  the  top,  six  hundred  feet  in  the  peaks, 
met  the  long-delayed  snowstorm,  and  knew  that  we 
were  crossing  just  in  time. 

Down  on  the  Italian  slope  the  snow  turned  to  rain 
and  the  roads  were  not  good.  The  Italians  dirnip 
rock  into  their  roads  and  let  the  traffic  wear  it  down. 
We  were  delayed  by  a  technicaHty  on  the  Swiss 
border,  and  it  was  dark  by  the  time  we  were  in  Italy 
— dark  and  rainy.  Along  the  road  are  overhanging 
galleries — really  timnels,  and  imlighted.  Our  pres- 
toUte  had  given  out  and  our  oil  lamps  were  too  feeble. 
I  have  never  known  a  more  precarious  drive  than 
across  that  long  stretch  from  Gondo  to  Domodossola, 
through  the  night  and  pouring  rain.  It  seemed 
endless,  and  when  the  Hghts  of  the  city  first  appeared 
I  should  have  guessed  the  distance  still  to  be  traveled 
at  forty  miles.  But  we  did  arrive;  and  we  laid  up 
three  days  in  a  hotel  where  it  was  cold — oh,  very 
cold — ^but  where  blessedly  there  was  a  small  open 
fire  in  a  little  sitting  room.     Also,  the  food  was  good. 

It  had  not  quit  raining  even  then,  but  we  started, 
anyway.  One  can  get  a  good  deal  of  Domodossola 
in  three  days,  though  it  is  a  very  good  town,  where 
few  people  stop,  because  they  are  always  going  some- 
where else  when  they  get  there.  Our  landlady  gave 
us  a  huge  bunch  of  flowers  at  parting,  too  huge  for 
our  limited  car  space.  A  Httle  way  down  the  road 
I  had  to  get  out  and  fix  something;  an  old  woman 
came  and  held  an  umbrella  over  me,  and,  having  no 
Italian  change,  I  gave  her  the  flowers,  and  a  Swiss 
nickel,  and  a  German  five-pfennig  piece,  and  she 


THE  LONG  TRAIL  ENDS  339 

thanked  me  just  as  if  I  had  contributed  something 
valuable.     The  Italians  are  polite. 

We  went  to  Stresa  on  Lake  Maggiore,  and  stopped 
for  the  night,  and  visited  Isola  Bella,  of  course,  and 
I  bought  a  big  red  umbrella  which  the  others  were 
ashamed  of,  and  fell  away  from  me  when  I  opened 
it  as  if  I  had  something  contagious.  They  would 
rather  get  soaking  wet,  they  said,  than  be  seen  walk- 
ing under  that  thing.  Pride  is  an  unfortimate  a^set. 
But  I  didn't  have  the  nerve  myself  to  carry  that 
lunbrella  on  the  streets  of  Milan.  Though  Stresa  is  not 
far  away,  its  umbrellas  are  unknown  in  Milan,  and  when 
I  opened  it  my  audience  congested  traffic.  I  didn't 
suppose  anything  could  be  too  gay  for  an  Italian. 

We  left  the  car  at  Milan  and  made  a  rail  trip 
to  Venice.  It  was  still  raining  every  Httle  while 
and  many  roads  were  under  water,  so  that  Venice 
really  extended  most  of  the  way  to  Milan,  and  auto- 
mobile travel  was  thought  to  be  poor  in  that  direc- 
tion. All  the  old  towns  over  there  we  visited,  for 
we  were  going  home,  and  no  one  could  say  when 
Europe  might  be  comfortable  for  tourists  again. 
A  good  deal  of  the  time  it  rained,  but  a  good  deal  of 
the  time  it  didn't,  and  we  slept  in  hotels  that  were 
once  palaces,  and  saw  much,  including  Juliet's  tomb 
at  Verona,  and  all  the  things  at  Padua,  and  we 
bought  violets  at  Parma,  and  sausages  at  Bologna. 
Then  we  came  back  to  Milan  and  drove  to  Genoa, 
stopping  overnight  at  Tortona,  because  we  thought 
we  would  be  sure  to  find  there  the  ices  by  that  name. 
But  they  were  out  of  them,  I  suppose,  for  we  could 
not  find  any. 


340         THE  CAR  THAT  WENT  ABROAD 

Still  we  had  no  definite  plans  about  America;  but 
when  at  Genoa  we  found  we  could  ship  the  car  on  a 
pretty  little  Italian  vessel  and  join  the  same  little 
ship  ourselves  at  Naples,  all  for  a  very  reasonable 
sum,  I  took  the  shipping  man  to  the  hotel  garage, 
turned  the  car  over  to  him,  and  the  thing  was  done. 

So  we  traveled  by  rail  to  Pisa,  to  Florence,  to 
Rome,  to  Naples  and  Pompeii,  stopping  as  we  chose; 
for,  as  I  say,  no  one  could  tell  when  Europe  would 
be  a  visiting  place  again,  and  we  must  see  what 
we  could. 

So  we  saw  Italy,  in  spite  of  the  rain  that  fell  pretty 
regularly,  and  the  rather  sharp  days  between-time. 
We  did  not  know  that  those  rains  were  soaking  down 
to  the  great  central  heat  and  would  produce  a  ter- 
rible earthquake  presently,  or  we  might  have  been 
rather  more  anxious  to  go.  As  it  was,  we  were  glad 
to  be  there  and  really  enjoyed  all  the  things. 

Yet,  there  was  a  different  feeling  now.  The  old 
care-freedom  was  gone;  the  future  had  become 
obscure.  The  talk  everywhere  was  of  the  war;  in 
every  city  soldiers  were  marching,  fine,  beautiful 
regiments,  commanded  by  officers  that  were  splen- 
didly handsome  in  their  new  uniforms.  We  were 
told  that  Italy  would  not  go  to  war — at  least  not 
until  spring,  but  it  was  in  the  air,  it  was  an  ominous 
cloud.     Nowhere  in  Europe  was  anjrthing  the  same. 

One  day  our  httle  ship  came  down  from  Genoa, 
and  we  went  aboard  and  were  off  next  morning. 
We  lay  a  day  at  Palermo,  and  then,  after  some  days 
of  calm  sailing  in  the  Mediterranean,  laimched  out 
into  the  Atlantic  gales  and  breasted  the  storms  for 


THE  LONG  TRAIL  ENDS  341 

nearly  two  weeks,  pitching  and  rolling,  but  home- 
ward bound. 

A  year  and  four  months  from  a  summer  afternoon 
when  we  had  stood  on  the  upper  deck  of  a  little 
French  steamer  in  Brooklyn  and  looked  down  into 
the  hold  at  a  great  box  that  held  our  car,  I  went  over 
to  Hoboken  and  saw  it  taken  from  another  box,  and 
drove  it  to  Connecticut  alone,  for  the  weather  was 
cold,  the  roads  icy.  It  was  evening  when  I  arrived, 
Christmas  Eve,  and  when  I  pushed  back  the  wide 
door,  drove  into  the  bam,  cut  off  the  engine,  and  in 
the  dim  winter  light  saw  our  capable  conveyance 
standing  in  its  accustomed  place,  I  had  the  curious 
feeling  of  never  having  been  away  at  all,  but  only 
for  a  winter's  drive,  dreaming  imder  dull  skies  of 
sxmimertime  and  France.  And  the  old  car — that 
to  us  had  always  seemed  to  have  a  personality  and 
sentience — had  it  been  dreaming,  too? 

It  was  cold  there,  and  growing  dark.  I  came  out 
and  locked  the  door.  We  had  made  the  circuit — 
our  great  adventure  was  over.  Would  I  go  again, 
under  the  same  conditions?  Ah  me!  that  wakens  still 
another  dream — for  days  ahead.  I  suppose  one 
should  not  expect  more  than  one  real  glimpse  of 
heaven  in  this  world,  but  at  least  one  need  not  give 
up  hoping. 

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